


The Woman in the Window

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Bromance, F/M, Mystery, Pining, Spying, Stalking, Suspicions, cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-02 04:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14536950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: There's a new neighbour living in the flat opposite theirs and she's a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. One that both Sherlock and John are hell bent on solving, even it if involves a little stalking.





	1. Shroedinger's Sugar Bowl

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this fic has been sitting on my hard drive for years now, so I might as well publish it before it dies of old age.

 

Fixing their post-case cup of tea had become something of a tradition to John by now. He made it extra-strong and extra-sugary to celebrate the fact they had once more avoided dying a most gruesome and ridiculous death. In a slowly filling vat of liquid chocolate of all things, this time around. Now that he thought about it, maybe Sherlock’s theory about all candy-makers being evil had some truth to it. Speaking of the devil, he was yelling something unintelligible from the living-room, which meant he was making an effort to be heard instead of just nattering on as if John was right next to him as he so often did. He had actually gone through the effort of checking his whereabouts first. Progress!

“How long have we had a new tenant in the flat across the street?” Sherlock repeated more loudly this time. He had to think it was important, which didn't mean it was as he had his own peculiar idea about what was and wasn't important.

“Do we?” John replied while he rummaged around the cupboards for biscuits. 

Chocolate hobnobs would be heaven right now. But he’d make do with plain digestives or even ginger nuts if there was nothing else. He was starving.

“Never mind,” Sherlock replied in that tone of voice meant to convey he was an idiot without having to actually say it. “Sometimes, your lack of observational skills astounds me, John. Do you think there’s something wrong with your brain? I know it’s not your eyes, your aim is too good, so it has to be your brain.”

John rolled said eyes as he walked out the kitchen and set the platter down on the small rickety table sitting between their armchairs with more force than was strictly necessary, ignoring the resulting tea-spillage. The table was already so stained, it might actually improve it by making the discolorations more uniform. John glanced at his flatmate, about to call him over, but Sherlock was gazing intently through the window, piquing his curiosity. It was already dark out, so John wondered how he could actually see anything other than his own reflection in the glass pane. 

“Fetch me the sugar bowl, John,” Sherlock demanded, his eyes still riveted on something across the street.

John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder but couldn’t see anything amiss, then back at the cup of tea he’d prepared for him with its fragrant tendrils of vapour still curling upwards and he frowned.

"Why? What's wrong with your tea? As a doctor, I feel obliged to tell you three sugars is already stretching it.” 

That would be surprising. For as long as he'd known him, Sherlock took his post case tea with two sugars and he was a creature of habit when he didn’t put everything on hold for a case. Then, he became the most unpredictable man on Earth.

“Don't be daft, John. The sugar is not for me.”

The “obviously” was heavily implied, causing John to sigh. He gave up on trying to follow Sherlock’s line of thought tonight, lest the furrow in his brow dig a permanent groove there. Sherlock was definitely in one of his ‘moods’ where he wasn't inclined to explain himself, leaving John no choice but to watch the events unfold in a constant state of befuddlement, and cross his fingers in the vain hope Sherlock didn't get himself in trouble again. He hated when Sherlock was in that mood. It made him feel twice as stupid as he usually did next to his genius of a friend.

Reluctantly, John snatched the sugar bowl from where he had left it on the kitchen counter and returned to the sitting room. Sherlock had not moved an inch, his intense gaze still lingering on a point across the street.

“Here,” John said, thrusting the bowl in his direction, the china lid tinkling in protest at the rough treatment.

Sherlock plucked the delicate lid off between two fingers and upended the bowl, the sugar piling at their feet in a perfect, little white cone. John began to ask what the buggering hell that was all about, horrified at the waste of perfectly good sugar, but cut himself off as soon as the first syllable was out of his mouth, because he was right: Sherlock  _ was  _ in one of his moods and John would just be wasting his breath trying to weasel an explanation out of him.

“Sadly, we ran out of sugar. I'll go ask the neighbours if they can spare some," Sherlock stated in a monotone and left before John could point out they had plenty more in the kitchen, and even if they didn’t, Mrs Hudson certainly would. 

But Sherlock obviously wanted to annoy the neighbours tonight.  _ Better them than me,  _ John thought, delighted at the fact that he could finally crash in his armchair to drink his tea in peace while it was still hot. His only worry  now was that they had no other neighbours in 221 besides Mrs Hudson and Sherlock never needed an excuse to go visit her so that’s not where he was headed. The basement flat, 221C, remained woefully empty as far as he knew because of the damp, and Sherlock was not so far gone into crazyland that he would ask the mold growing there to borrow some sugar. Besides, judging by Sherlock’s disconcerting fascination with whatever dwelt opposite their flat, that’s probably where he was headed. It was going a bit far for a little sugar they didn't need, but not  if he wanted to go snooping around. John wondered if he would hear the annoyed shouts the detective was bound to provoke from all the way across the street. It was, sadly, a very likely probability. That or sirens. It wouldn’t be the first time someone called the cops on him, and half the Yard would just love to get the chance to cuff Sherlock and parade him around like a prized poodle.

However, Sherlock came back barely ten minutes later with a dazed look on his face and his gait a mere shuffle when he had been prancing out the door just minutes prior. Something was definitely wrong.

“Are you feeling alright, Sherlock? You look...strange.”

“I… Yes. No… I’m not sure,” he answered, which worried John so much he jumped out of his chair to check on his friend, spilling tea for the second time that evening.

Sherlock looked just as he had on his way out, but when had Sherlock ever not been sure of something before? He either knew, or he didn’t, and he wasn’t shy about admitting either, but this uncertainty… that didn’t bode well, his mind simply didn’t function that way.

“Did you hit your head on your way out?” John asked, guiding Sherlock with a gentle hand to his own chair and pushing him down in it, his fingers beginning to comb through his curls in search of a bump.

“I was out?” 

“Alright, that does it. Take your coat, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

He must have hit his head. It was the only explanation for his apparent loss of immediate memory and his dazed look.

“No, I’m fine. I mean… I'm not hurt. I’m just... confused,” Sherlock replied with more confidence then eased himself in his chair in a clear refusal to be moved elsewhere. “My mind feels like your scrambled eggs.”

“Yes, I can see that,” John huffed, ignoring the slight to his scrambled eggs which did look disgusting, but actually tasted really good if a certain someone only bothered to try. “Let me at least give you a quick check-up, alright? I’ll fetch my bag.”

John didn’t wait for an answer and ran up the steps two at a time to his bedroom where he had a fully stocked medical bag in his closet in case of emergencies such as these. Living with Sherlock was hazardous even when he hadn’t gotten it in his mind to test exotic poisons, unstable acids, or, on one memorable occasion, the pliability of metals.

John kneeled in front of Sherlock and noticed for the first time he was still clutching the sugar bowl in a death grip. He had to literally pry his fingers off one by one. Once freed, John realized from its weight it was now filled and a quick check reassured him it was indeed filled with sugar and not say, a very small snake or very big spider. Or explosives. But no… just plain old sugar. He was almost disappointed. Setting the bowl aside for the time being, John began his usual routine on Sherlock: checking his eyes, paying attention to his skull in particular, asking questions, testing his reflexes and even his blood pressure but everything was completely normal. There wasn't the slightest bruise or tender spot to be found on Sherlock's entire thick skull and John had been thorough in making sure of that, despite the mass of curls making it a long and laborious task. As far as John could tell, Sherlock was in perfect health. He even seemed to be enjoying what was basically a scalp massage, the prat.

“I really think you should go to the hospital, pass a scan, just in case I missed something,” John said, biting his bottom lip.

“Why? Because you can’t find anything wrong with me?” Sherlock teased then snorted in derision. “No. I trust your skills as a doctor and I have a mystery to solve. No time for hospitals. Hospitals are boring. Except the morgues.”

“And which mystery would that be?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“The case of the self-filling sugar-bowl, of course.”

“That’s a really lame name, you know.”

“Well, you’re the writer. What do you propose we call it?”

“I can’t know that until we’ve solved the mystery, Sherlock. That’s the whole point. And there is no mystery. You went out to fill the sugar bowl, the very one you purposefully emptied on the floor, might I add, and came back with the sugar-bowl filled. You’re just dizzy because you sprained your brain trying to be polite to the neighbour or bumped your head on the way back. It’s your own fault for being so freakishly tall.”

John put his instruments away and sat back down, scowling when his next sip of tea proved cold. 

_ Damnit. Every time. _

“First of all, I do not bump into things by accident. Ever. I’m not some awkward, blundering oaf. Second, you should blame my parents for my height, or yours for your lack thereof. No need to be so jealous.”

“I’m not… never mind,” John said and took a deep breath while the mantra  _ pick your battles, pick your battles  _ played on a loop in the back of his mind. “So what happened, then? Someone attacked you when you went out to get some sugar, but you saved the bowl without spilling a single grain of its contents?”

“I can’t tell you how possible that eventuality might be until you give me a precise account of what happened, John. You know that.”

John huffed in irritation as he realized he had just been retrograded to simple eye-witness.

“Oh, alright! You went out-”

“No,” Sherlock cut him off, giving him a sharp look. 

At least he was back to his old self. No sign of any lingering dizziness whatsoever. That ruled out drugs too, which was a relief and the only remaining reason he'd wanted to drag Sherlock out to A&E.

“What do you mean ‘No.’?”

“Before that? What was I doing before going out? What did I do? What did I say?”

“Uhm...You were staring out the window there,” John started, indicating the living room window where Sherlock usually played his violin. “You asked for the sugar bowl, tipped its contents on the floor -it’s still there, by the way, and  _ I’m _ not cleaning it up - then you left saying we ran out and were going to ask the neighbours.”

“That’s strange,” Sherlock commented.

“You’re telling me,” John muttered, but not low enough as it clearly amused his so-called friend. “Oh, wait. Before that, while I was fixing tea in the kitchen, you asked me since when we had a new neighbour in the flat across the street from ours.”

Their gazes met and they hurried to the window, inspecting said flat. John had been right, it was hard to see anything except their own reflections, especially because the place they wanted to inspect was plunged in darkness.

“Lights,” Sherlock ordered and John jumped to do just that, telling himself it was out of habit and not because he enjoyed being at Sherlock’s beck and call like some Yarders had so snidely commented.

“Looks like it’s empty,” John said.

“You mean the tenant is not currently at home, because the flat is definitely lived in. See those plant-pots on the window-ledge, a bit of a safety hazard if you ask me. And there are drapes hung on all the windows. A shame we can’t see anything more in this darkness though.”

“Stakeout, then?” John asked.

“Definitely.”

They had pulled their armchairs to the window and despite the large pot of coffee he’d prepared to replace his cold tea, John must have fallen asleep pretty early in their surveillance of the mystery neighbour. Sherlock, of course, hadn’t.

“Anything new?” John mumbled when he woke up to the greyish dawn light, then yawned and stretched his stiff limbs.

“Our mystery neighbour has not returned yet, but I can tell you it’s a woman and she has a cat, but no boyfriend. She likes to read and knit, but has a strong dislike of technology.”

“Sounds like an old spinster to me,” John deduced.

“One would think so, yes, but look at the couch.”

John did so and spotted a red, glittering gown discarded over it. The kind of dress women wore at galas if their tits still pointed North. A young woman, then. Probably attractive if she managed to pull off wearing such a dress. John grinned, his mind having wandered to its more salacious recesses.

“What's with the smile, John. I never figured you to be such a lecherous old man.”

“What- No!” he sputtered indignantly, feeling his face grow hot because Sherlock was, as usual, spot on. “Actually, I was thinking of a possible scenario that would explain this mystery.”

“Go on, then,” Sherlock said, clearly not believing him.

“You knocked on her door to borrow some sugar and were so love-struck by her that it addled your mind.”

“Ridiculous,” the detective scoffed.

“I know, but it’s funny to imagine,” John paused. “Have you  _ ever _ been in love, Sherlock?”

“Whatever for?” his friend asked as if he had just been insulted or asked if he'd ever eaten a worm.

John hummed in understanding.

“Yes, I thought you might say that.”

“It still doesn’t explain why I went there in the first place. There’s nothing suspicious that I can see.”

“Maybe you know her. The woman, I mean. Maybe you recognized her and went over there to investigate.”

Sherlock, for one, didn't dismiss his idea outright and even gave it a few minutes consideration, but ultimately, he didn’t look convinced. He had no better explanation to offer himself though, and they returned to their vigil.

When the evening darkened the sky once more, the lights in the flat opposite flared to life and the two men sat on the edges of their seat, their noses almost touching the glass pane. Sherlock had been right again: their neighbour was a young woman. She crossed the wooden floorboards and threw a dark cloak on the couch along with a small beaded purse, then kicked off her shoes and flung herself on the battered piece of furniture.

“Messy,” Sherlock commented.

“You’re one to talk. I found an eyeball you left behind in the microwave this morning. I thought it was an old raisin at first. And we've been using that microwave to heat our  _ food _ , Sherlock.” John’s eyes strayed to the white cone of sugar nearby. “And you still haven’t cleaned up your sugar pyramid!”

Sherlock grunted in disinterest at such domestic trivia. They silently observed the woman, but she wasn’t ringing any alarm bells as far as John was concerned. She looked to be in her late twenties and had the longest braid of hair John had ever seen, tufts of it apparently trying to escape its confines. Pretty, in a subdued sort of way, that contrasted wildly with the red gown glittering next to her under the artificial light. An orange blur suddenly pounced on her and she laughed, petting the squash-faced animal. It was the ugliest cat he'd ever seen but she seemed to like it, until she abruptly stopped her petting and stared straight at them, her brows knitting down in a furious scowl.

“Busted,” Sherlock said, not at all abashed, like a kid who had skipped school and had fully expected to be caught. The berk even waved at her.

John’s reaction was a bit more extreme: he lunged out of his chair, hiding under the window-sill, mortified he had been caught spying on a woman in the privacy of her home. Damn Sherlock, it  _ did _ make him feel like a lecherous old bastard. Sherlock, in direct opposition to John’s movement, got up and straightened his rumpled clothes.

“So, shall we go introduce ourselves?”

“Are you mental? She’s going to call the cops, you git!”

“I highly doubt it,” Sherlock said. “Besides, she closed her curtains, so we can’t spy on her anymore and I need more data.”

John picked himself off the floor, annoyed Sherlock had not told him he could stop hiding sooner. He was probably laughing inside, the git.

“That only proves she does not wish to see us, or for us to see her. Just leave it be, Sherlock. She looks harmless enough. Admit you simply bumped your head on the way back and be done with it.”

Sherlock smiled.

“You know me better than that, John. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Generally, Sherlock’s idea of fun was not his own, but John followed him across the street, if only so he didn’t get another dizzy spell on his way back. They scanned the list of tenants at the front door.

“There,” John said, pointing at the newest looking tag that just read H.G.

“Very good, John. What else can you tell from it.”

John thought for a minute, rubbing the stubble on his chin and making a mental note to shave when he returned home. 

“Neat lettering, old fashioned, hand written. Not typed out on a computer like the others, but you already said she disliked technology. It’s very strange she only wrote her initials instead of her name though. I’ve never seen that done before.”

“And?”

John shrugged, not in the mood for Sherlock’s little games. He knew the detective would fill him in on whatever it was he'd missed.

“Using only her initials suggests she neither wants nor expects company, but also that she doesn’t expect any post or deliveries, which is highly irregular. And most people procrastinate for a long time before putting their name on the outside doorbell after they just moved in. She’s efficient, organized. Her writing suggests the same: it’s very neat, as you pointed out, and sharp, without any of the frills women usually favor.”

“But you said she’s messy, earlier.”

“Yes, where it doesn’t count. Clothing for example, or housekeeping. It's a reasonable distinction to make.”

“So she’s a bit like you,” John pointed out, still miffed by the sugary mess that hadn’t been cleared from the floor in the middle of their living room.

Sherlock ignored him and rang one of the other bells to have a neighbor open the door for them. They made their way up the stairs, John wondering all the while why he was letting his madman of a friend go through with his idiotic plan. He wasn’t encouraging him, but he wasn’t stopping him either. Sherlock knocked on the door, and a minute later, they could hear a bolt being pulled back.  And then another, and another… Four in total. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised, which wasn't something John witnessed all that often. The woman stood there, the door only half-opened and probably ready to be slammed shut in their faces. The scowl on her own pale face made her appear older than John had previously thought.

“I hoped you wouldn’t be coming,” she said by way of greeting.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sherlock answered, not sounding sorry at all or even perturbed by such a cold welcome. John, on the other hand, was having seconds thoughts and inched closer to the stairs.

“Could I borrow some sugar? I seem to have ran out,” Sherlock asked in a sweet voice that set John’s teeth on edge.

John would never get used to Sherlock’s ability to lie so easily. The woman’s frown was losing a battle with the spasmodic twitch of her lips though, and a shadow of a smile ultimately won.

“Ran out again?” she asked.

_ So she was the one who gave Sherlock the sugar. _

John looked at the detective but his face was as unreadable as ever after he’d dropped the fake sweetness.

“Oh, no. I have plenty on the floor, but I’ve been told not to eat what I find there. Something to do with health hazard, I believe,” Sherlock replied, which did catch the woman off guard. 

She looked about to ask why his sugar was on the floor or why he’d need to be reminded not to eat anything found there, thought better of it and just shook her head. She looked over at Sherlock and then him. She had brown eyes much like Greg’s, that could be as cold as chips of coal or as warm as hot chocolate depending on who they were directed at. John hoped very much this wasn’t the DI’s kid sister or something, or the man would  _ skin _ them alive.

“And where’s you sugar bowl?” she asked.

“Oh, seems like we forgot it, silly us. You might as well invite us in for tea. It'll save us some back and forths.”

_ Oh, come on! She’s bound to slam the door in our faces now,  _ John thought, bracing himself for it. But to his surprise,  the woman sighed, opened the door wider and motioned them in.

“I’m Hermione Granger, by the way,” she said, shaking Sherlock’s proffered hand. “But maybe you already knew that from spying on me.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” his friend said, unperturbed at the jab. “And this here is my friend, Doctor John Watson.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said with a sweet smile, looking speculatively from Sherlock, to him and back again. John hated that look, he'd seen it much too often.

“Not like that,” John muttered, knowing exactly what she was thinking when Sherlock had introduced him as his ‘friend’. Maybe it was the way he said it. “I swear, every time...”

 


	2. A Study in Oddity

Sherlock scanned the flat as he entered, his eyes darting every which way, taking in every little detail now that he had the opportunity to see everything up close. He had a nagging feeling that he should know something about his place, or remember... but as soon as he tried to reach for the information, it escaped his grasp, burrowing deeper and deeper in his mind, like a very stubborn splinter. He would have to take the time to visit his mind palace soon, just in case something was amiss. It was especially disturbing as it had never happened to him before. If this is how normal people usually felt, it was a wonder they managed to function at all.

“When did you move in?” Sherlock asked, seemingly to make small talk.

“Just two days ago. I was lucky to find such a spacious flat in this neighbourhood, so I signed the lease immediately.”

“You unpacked very fast,” he commented and sure enough, there was not a single box lying about, half-empty or otherwise. Nothing to indicate a recent move-in.

“I had help,” she said without further explanation.

Despite having been consumed with solving their previous case, Sherlock was certain he had seen no professional movers or a van with bustling family and friends hefting boxes and furniture around these last couple of days. A quick glance at John, who gave a slight shake of his head, told him he hadn’t either. But why would she lie about such a mundane thing? 

“Take a seat,” she invited with a wave of her hand toward the couch she had been lounging in. 

The cat was still there, grooming itself, but it shot them a disdainful glance when they approached and refused to budge. It was a strange breed, nothing Sherlock had a ever seen before, but he liked the spark of intelligence in its golden eyes and appreciated the fact it wouldn't be inclined to rub its fur on his clothes. The only thing worse than a shedding cat was a cuddly shedding cat. Sherlock was debating whether to sit on the couch so as to have the opportunity to sniff the woman, or to sit on the armchair facing it so he could stare more directly at her, but ultimately, John took the decision out of his hands by claiming  the armchair first, glancing warily at the cat.

"I didn't know you had a fear of cats, John," he remarked.

"I'm not entirely sure that thing  _ is  _ a cat."

"Of course it's a cat, Doctor Watson," their host chimed in as she set a full platter of tea and biscuits on the table with an overly large bowl of sugar in its centre. Clearly, she was making a point. "He's just a grumpy old thing, but he wouldn't hurt a fly. Although, I suppose he still goes into a frenzy when he sees a rat."

"Well, that's good. Can't say I've seen that many rats around here, though. Where are you from?" John asked.

Either John was being very smooth in interrogating the woman or he was just being his sociable, babbling self, but either way, Sherlock approved of his line of questioning and didn't intervene.

"I grew up near London but went to a boarding school in Scotland. I've travelled a lot since then. You know, see the world while you're young kind of thing?"

John nodded knowingly.

"That's why I joined the army myself, to see the world. But you're still so young, why settle down already?"

Miss Granger chuckled.

"I'm not as young as you may think, Doctor. Actually, I'll be turning thirty-two in a few weeks. But don't worry, I'll take that as a compliment,"

She gave John a warm smile and John couldn’t hide the blush that lightly coloured his cheeks. Poor man never could resist a pretty face. Sherlock had underestimated her age too, which was very rare and usually caused by an abuse of very good chirurgical modifications or expert make-up.  However, that didn't seem to be the case here and she wasn’t wearing so much as a smudge of mascara. In fact, with her messy braid and frumpy, overlarge clothes, she didn’t seem to care much for appearances and could pass off as a penniless student. She could be a lying about her age to misguide them, of course, but why bother when she'd given them her name? Unless the name was also a fake? But then why not choose one more mundane than Hermione? Like John.

Speaking of, his dear friend was making a fool of himself chatting the girl up, so he took the time to study her on the sly, but he couldn't make heads nor tails of the clues he gathered. She had calluses on her right hand that could be typical of a professional fencer but nothing else in her gait or flat to suggest as much. There wasn’t even a single clue as to what her profession might be. Hermione Granger was truly a mystery, and not only because of what he couldn’t deduce but also because of the nonsensical clues he could.

First of all, she should be covered in her cat’s fulr, like all cat owners were, but she was completely devoid of even a single hair upon her person, despite the fact that she was sitting right next to the ginger beast and had been cuddling it not ten minutes ago. Even Sherlock could spot a couple of orange strands clinging to his otherwise pristine trousers and he’d only just arrived.

Then, her dislike of technology was far more critical than he had first surmised now that he had an open view of the small kitchen: no microwave, no toaster and the fridge and oven were  _ ancient.  _ No coffee-maker either. Maybe he should ask her for one next time, just to see how she went about it. But he might end up with a cup of instant coffee, so he doubted it was worth the risk. Unsurprisingly, there was no television and he saw no computer, tablet, phone or game console anywhere. In fact, there was a distinct lack of cables anywhere. Even the various lamps sitting around lacked an electrical cord, although they were turned on and emitted a soft, warm glow. Curious, but there was a number of possible explanations to that: three, off the top of his head, but it was still an oddity.

Sherlock bent over to reach for one of the cups of tea, taking advantage of his position to smell the woman: a hint of vanilla, but not a perfume, her shampoo maybe, but no other smell of anything else so she probably worked indoors, an office employee would have been likely if it wasn’t for the baggy, nondescript clothes she wore. The glittering red gown was no office attire either… 

“Did you just… sniff me, Mr Holmes?” Miss Granger asked, her voice cold once more.

Her posture had suddenly become stiff, her knuckles turned white as she held her teacup with too much force. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. This was an interesting reaction: she either feared the physical proximity of a man, which was unlikely since she had not recoiled from them before when they shook hands, or it was the gesture of inhaling her scent that had made her so uncomfortable.

“Please don’t take it personally, Miss Granger,” John intervened. “Sherlock has no clue of what is socially acceptable or not. I once saw him lick someone’s hand to prove they’d just eaten a muffin. It was his brother’s, too. Very disturbing, I still have nightmares about it.”

She gave the good doctor a tight smile and brought her cup to her lips. It trembled, only very slightly, but Sherlock’s whole attention was focused on her. He just wished he had been sitting across from her to check if her pupils had dilated. It was too much to hope John had done it for him.

“Tell me, Miss Granger, who are you hiding from?” Sherlock asked casually in the tone people used to ask about the weather.

He was not certain of this theory but it would certainly explain why she didn’t put her name on display on the doorbell, why she had so many bolts on her door, why she had travelled around the world -on the run, not travelling- and why she had reacted so strongly to his smelling her, which was a common peculiarity amongst stalkers. If he had not been completely sure before, her reaction now confirmed it without the shadow of a doubt: she shook so violently, her teacup rattled all the way back to the table. Then, she shot up from her seat and pointed at the front door with a trembling finger. 

“Leave. Now. Please.” Anger, fear and… restraint?

Sherlock stood, knowing there was no point in trying to gather more intelligence from her in this state, and he waited for John to follow suit. However, the poor fellow was rooted to his seat, looking at the young woman with wide eyes. Sherlock nudged him and he complied, shooting worried glances at their host all the while. Before they were out, the detective noticed John leave his number on the table by the entry, using one of his ‘I'm a real doctor’ cards. As soon as they were out, the door slammed shut and all the bolts slid home at the same time, followed by the crash of something heavy against the door.

“Was she walking behind you?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head slowly, still wide-eyed.

“Interesting,” Sherlock commented, adding it to his list of oddities where the young woman was concerned.

“Do you think we should really leave her in such a state? She’s clearly terrified,” John asked, ever the knight in shining armour.

“I think she can take care of herself,” the detective countered. “It looks as though this game of hide and seek with her stalker has been going on for a while.”

“It’s not a game!” John groused, scowling up at him. “I wish you’d stop calling it that.”

“Not for her, no. Or even us. But it is for whoever is after our mysterious Miss Granger. It's always a game for someone. Come along, John. Let us go home.”

John hesitated, looking torn between the need to knock on the door and the knowledge it would be for nought, but eventually, he turned around and stormed down the stairs, then up to their own flat, hurrying towards the window of the living room.

“The curtains are still closed,” John said, stating the obvious.

“Of course they are, John.” Sherlock said, reclaiming his armchair and typing away on his phone.

No Facebook, no Twitter, no blog or Instagram, and even google failed to deliver any information on their new neighbour. The young woman was a ghost. Or she'd given a fake name. He said as much to John, who had finally stopped fretting and resumed his vigil from his own armchair.

“I read you can pay people to erase your digital footprints,” John offered.

Sherlock hummed and did the next best thing.

 

**Who is Hermione Granger? -SH**

 

He sent the text without hesitation, knowing his brother would look into it, if only to satisfy his own curiosity, and if Mycroft himself didn’t find anything about the girl, then she truly was a ghost. But any answer he gave, even a denial, would provide him with some inkling of information, a clue as to what place he should dig. Surprisingly, his brother’s reply was swift and to the point.

 

**Leave her well alone. -MH**

 

_ Oh, interesting! _ Not only was Mycroft well acquainted with the name, but he wanted him to stay away, so she was either a VIP of the highest level, or she was dangerous. Dangerous enough that Mycroft kept an eye on her. But she hadn’t looked all that threatening, unless he dropped dead in the next few minutes from poisoned tea, so she was more than likely a very important person in cahoots with the British government. But that was in direct contradiction with her lack of ‘digital footprints’ as John called it. Maybe a retired secret agent? No, she was way too young for that…

“Who  _ are _ you, Hermione Granger?” Sherlock muttered  under his breath.

“Any luck?” John asked with a nod at his phone.

“Not as such, no.”

With a last, desperate effort, Sherlock called Lestrade.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking,” came the well-rehearsed business-like greeting, not cut to a disgruntled “Lestrade”, which meant the man was currently sitting at his desk and not on a crime scene.

“Sherlock speaking. I need you to find me anything, and I mean  _ anything,  _ on a young woman, caucasian, thirty-one, currently living in London, named Hermione Granger. It’s not a common name, it should be easy enough for you lot.”

“Is this a case you’re working on, Sherlock?”

“It is now,” he replied before cutting off the connection.

“If your brother didn’t find anything, I doubt Greg will,” John said.

“Who’s Greg?”

“Lestrade,” John answered with an exaggerated sigh. “Honestly with that brain of yours, it can’t be all that hard to remember his first name.”

“Hard, no. But it’s not relevant either. And Mycroft does not lack information about Miss Granger, he simply refuses to share it,” he explained, showing John the text he had just received.

“Maybe if you tell him she’s our new neighbour, he’ll be more forthcoming.”

“Or more likely, he’ll just whisk her away. For her own safety, I'm sure. But I do like to keep a good mystery at hand.”

“She’s not just… a puzzle. Sometimes, you’re a real insensitive git, Sherlock, you know that?”

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

The next morning, Sherlock gently shook his friend’s good shoulder to rouse him.

“Wake up, John! She’s leaving.”

“Wuh?” John muttered, blinking in the harsh morning light.

“She just opened the curtains, she’ll be outside in two minutes at the most, so you better hurry.”

Sherlock threw on his long coat and yanked the door open, only to be faced by a grim-faced Lestrade, holding a paper in his hand.

“Warrant,” the man muttered, not as satisfied as he usually was when being given the opportunity to do a drug bust at 221B Baker Street.

“Alone?” Sherlock asked, expecting to see the smug faces of Anderson and Donovan climbing the stairs behind him.

“Yes, but nobody has to know that,” Lestrade replied,  pushing him back to step into the flat himself. “John,” he greeted with a nod of his head at the still bleary-eyed doctor.

John looked over at Sherlock, who shook his head just a fraction.

“I don’t know what you’ve stepped into this time, Sherlock, but I did as you asked, God knows why, and as soon as I entered the name you gave me in the computer, I found myself in the chief’s office, under official warning to mind my own business. And then, these two suit-spooks came out of nowhere and interrogated me for an hour like a common criminal! Me!”

Lestrade threw his arms in the air and paced the floor of the living room.

“Damnit, Sherlock! Don’t ever ask me for a favour again! And what’s with the chairs… Wait... Are you two spying on your neighbours?” Lestrade asked, striding towards the window to look out. “What kind of stupid game are you playing at now, Sherlock? I’m not losing my job because you have a hunch one of your neighbours is serial killer!”

“Is she?” Sherlock asked bemusedly. Lestrade was so easy to rile up. “This Hermione Granger?”

“NO!” Lestrade cried out, slumping into Sherlock’s seat. “I don’t know who she is. I found very little before I was… summoned. Her birth certificate, her parents death certificates, a driving license, a passport… the usual official documents.”

_Not a ghost, then,_ _and not a fake name either,_ Sherlock thought happily. Finally, a bit of normalcy in Miss Granger’s life.

“Maybe if you did a search on her parents-” Sherlock began but was cut off with a resounding “No!” from the Scotland Yard detective.

“I’m leaving and I don’t want to hear from you for at least a month,” Lestrade warned. “If anyone asks, I interrogated you for two hours and searched your whole flat for God knows what. Hell, I don’t even know myself! And if you’re as smart as you claim you are, you’ll be leaving that woman alone, whoever the hell she is.”

Lestrade slammed the door shut on his way out, which he had never done before, so he must have spent as disturbing a night as he had claimed.

“Come on, John. We have some digging to do,” Sherlock said to his companion.

“I’m afraid the trail is cold, Sherlock. We’ll never find her with the head start she’s had.”

“I said digging, not tailing. I want to know more about her parents.”

“Why?” John asked, evidently not fully awake yet. Maybe they should stop by a coffee shop first because John was of no use to him in this state.

“She’s quite young to have lost both her parents to old age, so either they died in a car crash or something equally as dull…”

“...or the cause of their death is what has Miss Granger running...” John finished for him.

Sherlock gave an approving nod and they were off to the best source he could think off to give them information about the dearly departed: the sweet Molly Hooper.  _ She _ could never refuse him a favour the way Lestrade just had.

  
  



	3. Stranger Things

You’d have to be blind not to notice Molly Hooper was happy to see Sherlock. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree and she was flustered to the point she dropped her clipboard. Twice. It was a bit embarrassing to witness, to be honest, and John was still at a loss as to why she was so taken with Sherlock when the man was so blatantly oblivious about her interest. And by oblivious, John meant oblivious on purpose. He even suspected Sherlock used her feelings to weasel favours out of her without ever having to give anything in return, except for an occasional smile or prolonged eye-contact. Poor Molly never stood a chance.

“Sure, I can run their names in the database if you want, Sherlock. Is it for a case you’re working on?” she asked out of habit but John had no doubt she would look into it for him regardless.

“Lestrade mentioned something about a serial killer,” Sherlock replied, making John wince.

It was not a lie, of course, but it was so very far from the truth, it physically pained him. Sherlock could really be an insensitive prick when he wanted to.

“The case I'm looking into might be quite old. Search for the last ten years. A couple by the last name of Granger. I don’t have their first names, but you might want to look into the very boring sort: John, James, Emma, Molly… you get my drift.”

John shot him a look. The sort of look with big round eyes that promised a sound scolding to come. John didn’t mind the slight to his own given name, he was immune to it by now, especially coming from Sherlock, but Molly, who already had low self-esteem issues, wasn’t faring so well at being so directly insulted.  Her eyes looked distinctly moist under the harsh neon lights. However, Sherlock completely missed all the signs of impending tears and droned on:

“Only people with the most common of names would give such an original name to their child. Trust me, I know.”

John gave up. Apparently, it was no use trying to get the logic-driven genius to act civilly towards the lesser human beings around him, simply because he didn’t do feelings.

“Thank you, Molly,” John said to change the subject. “We wouldn’t ask if it was not important.”

However, Molly was already too dazzled by one of Sherlock’s insincere smiles to pay him any mind and she typed the search into her computer. She showed the list to Sherlock who went through it quickly, muttering “Too old… too young… too foreign… Silly name. Who names their offspring Norbert? Ah, now  _ this _ is interesting. Print me these two Molly, if you please,” the detective demanded pointing at two rows in the middle of the screen that had the same dates of death recorded in 2006.

They crowded around the reports and even Molly, who was probably used to this kind of thing, turned white as a sheet and excused herself. To be honest, John was losing his composure too and the coffee Sherlock had mercifully grabbed for him that morning soured in the pit of his stomach. He glanced at Sherlock’s face, having expected one of his unfeeling comments to erupt by now but he, too, was stone-faced. The detective secreted the papers in his inside pocket and lead the way out. Molly was still nowhere to be seen though, so John quickly closed the tabs on her computer in the hopes she wouldn’t get in any trouble the way Greg had, then he caught up with Sherlock, wondering what was going on in that bloody great mind of his...

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

They had gone right back to staring out their living room window at the empty flat across the street, the two autopsy reports lying on the table between them.

“What do you suppose  _ really _ happened to them?” John asked, not sure if he really wanted to know or not, but ‘molested by a pack of wild dogs” was not an acceptable cause of death given they lived in a quiet suburban neighbourhood, with uneventful jobs as dentists, and no known enemies, debts, or disgruntled patients. However, they had both been found in several pieces at home, while it was locked and in the middle of winter to boot, so that not even a window had been found cracked open. So did a pack of dogs ring the doorbell, make an open buffet of their hosts and politely close everything behind them? Not bloody likely. It’s like the police didn’t even  _ try _ to solve the case and had found any excuse, not even a good one, rather than bother to solve the case and slap that onto the report so it could be closed and filed away. John looked at his friend who usually loved locked-door mysteries, but there was none of his childish glee to be found at the prospect. In fact, the more they worked on this ‘case’, the more Sherlock seemed quiet and pensieve.

“I wish we had pictures of the autopsy,” Sherlock finally rumbled in a low voice, crossing his fingers in front of his face as he usually did when he was reflecting on something.

“I don’t,” John admitted. “It sounds as if it was a bloody carnage in there. I’m not sure even you would have made much sense of the bits and pieces. I know I wouldn’t have. I don’t think I could even  _ try  _ to, there’s only so much you can take… Anyway, it’s been... what? Almost four years since it happened and there were no photos attached in the file, I checked, so the point is moot.”

“Yes, another oddity, that, but at least, we have an idea of what she's running from.”

“Do you think she saw…”

“Given how scared she still is, I should think so. She was their only child. She probably discovered them and has been running ever since, which makes me think she was the actual target and her parents were just a message, or collateral damage.”

John felt sick again although he hadn’t been able to eat a bite since reading the report. No wonder the young woman was so suspicious and scared, not to mention angry at them for poking their noses into her life.

“So what should we do now?” he asked, hoping Sherlock had a solution, because he usually did and no one deserved to live in that much fear. Sherlock stared intently at the outside world and the dark flat across the street.

“We could start by joining the Neighbourhood and Home Watch Network,” Sherlock said, which made John smile despite himself and eased a little of the tension that had been lingering since their discovery of their neighbour's violent past.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

Miss Granger was back. She had turned the lights on and John noticed for the first time that they all turned on at the same time instead of having to switch them on one by one. She petted her cat, who appeared out of nowhere and she was about to sit on the couch like she had done the previous evening when she glanced up and stared right at them. She didn’t look as crossed as she had the previous night, but she nonetheless purposefully walked to her window and slid the curtains shut with a flourish. He was certain she would have liked to slam them shut if that had been possible.

Sherlock chuckled.

“She’s feisty, I’ll give her that,” Sherlock said with an alien tone of fondness in his voice. “You know, most people would have succumbed to madness, living with such fear everyday for years.”

“Yes. Yes, I know,” John replied, and he too felt oddly proud of the petite, yet strong woman who hid across the street with only an old, grumpy cat for company.

They were having cold sandwiches in front of their window when the curtains across the street were suddenly pulled back. Not by Miss Granger, who was sitting on her couch, arms crossed with a decidedly mulish expression on her face, but by a young man with messy black hair and round glasses. He glared in their general direction while they both held their sandwiches halfway to their open mouths, then he turned on his heels and strode out of view. A minute later he was out the front door and crossing the street with resolute steps. They listened to the doorbell ring shrilly, pushed forcefully and for far too long, then Mrs Hudson’s light footsteps hurrying to open and a short exchange before he was let in and walking up the steps. His footfalls light but quick.

“Boyfriend?” John asked, wondering if Sherlock had been wrong about that after all. He was, sometimes, even if he didn't like to admit it.

“I doubt it, or he would have come by yesterday after we left,” Sherlock answered before there was a sharp double-knock at their door.

“You take it, John. You look less threatening,” Sherlock decided.

“Gee, thanks,” he muttered, although he could see the sense in that. 

If it was indeed an overprotective or jealous boyfriend, it better be the smaller, less good-looking of the two who opened the door and confronted him. John turned the handle and peeked out with his heart beating fast but he affected a calm manner. It wouldn't help him if he looked guilty before he even got a chance to explain himself.

“Yes?” he asked, looking into startling green eyes that flashed angrily.

“Don’t you ‘yes’ me, Mister,” the young man shot back, pushing his way in. “Aha! She said there were two of you,” he said accusingly although he stood a good head and a half shorter than Sherlock.

Hell, their visitor was even shorter than him, which was a rarity in itself. But he didn’t seem the least bit bothered that he was physically outmatched, outnumbered and in enemy territory, so to speak. Maybe Miss Granger’s friend wasn’t really spoiling for a fight, despite all the indicators pointing to the contrary, and the point was moot anyway because they were interrupted before John could try his hand at diplomacy.

“Harry!” a feminine voice snapped like the crack of a whip, and there was their neighbour, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. Her hair was untied today and she had an impressive mane of dark curls cascading around her face which John found quite fetching.

“Please, come in and join us, Miss Granger. The more, the merrier, isn’t that how the saying goes?” Sherlock asked over the stranger’s head.

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock was doing that to be rude on purpose or if he’d just taken the habit having a short friend at his side. The stranger seemed to find it as offensive as John did at first and he felt like patting his shoulder in sympathy.

“Thank you,” she answered flatly and entered before turning on her companion again. “Harry, you know you can’t just go barging off like that, biting people’s heads off. That temper of yours is going to get you killed one day.”

“But… but they-” the young man, Harry, stuttered, pointing an accusing finger at him and Sherlock in turn.

“I told you: they didn't do anything wrong. They’re just two nosy buggers who are too smart for their own good. If you'd left my curtains well enough alone like I’d asked you to, you wouldn't even know about them. Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson, if you could please stop spying on me, though, that would be greatly appreciated.”

John shuffled nervously. He knew what they were doing was wrong, even if it was done with the best intentions in mind, and that anyone would assume they were a couple of peeping-toms preying on a pretty, isolated woman. He was hoping Sherlock would say something unexpected so they could avoid speaking of it, and Sherlock, bless him, never failed to provide.

“If you're hiding from someone, Miss Granger, why even display your initials on your doorbell for everyone to see?”

Harry snickered nastily.

“Because I don't think that monster even knows his alphabet.”

“Harry!” Hermione cried out, punching him in the arm with surprising force going by her friend's wince. “I can't believe you just said that!”

“What? It's not as if I divulged anything,” the young man whined, but, strangely enough, he kept glancing out of the window as if he expected to be struck by lightning at any moment.

“I told you,” she said, tight-lipped. “Those two are way too smart, more so than me.”

“I highly doubt that,” he answered easily, glancing at them with a dismissive look.

And yes, John  _ did _ feel insulted by that, but he only had to bite back a retort about the young man's manners. Sherlock, however, was not as forgiving, and proceeded to deduce him to death as he usually did when someone annoyed him.

“You're married and have two, no, three children and as many pets, one of which is a cat and another a very large bird. You have a highly stressful job, something to do with policing or... sword combat judging by your scars and calluses, with very little free time on your hands. Yet, you still took it upon yourself to visit your distressed friend in the middle of the week after work-hours which shows you place loyalty way above the good manners you so obviously lack. I'd say your wife is either very tolerant or...she knows Miss Granger herself and is also a close friend of hers, because your wife clearly loves you, and yet, she doesn't mind you leaving her home alone with a house full of screeching children and animals while you're here cheering up your lady-friend.”

Sherlock paused, savouring the man's gobsmacked expression and continued.

“I could go on, but I think I've made my point.”

“Wow, you were right Hermione. I never thought I'd see the day. You should marry the bloke,” Harry said, looking at her with a teasing grin, while Sherlock looked torn between smug satisfaction at someone admitting he was brilliant and horror at the mere mention of marriage.

“I bloody well don’t think so!” the woman exclaimed.

“Yeah, I guess you'd have to get over the creepy stalking act,” Harry agreed.

John groaned. They were back to square one then.

"Do you want me to...?" Harry asked her, waving his hand airily in front of them both.

What was he hinting at? Getting rid of them? He didn’t seem armed and John could easily take him in a fight, even without Sherlock’s help.

“No,” their neighbour mumbled, blushing, which set Harry off to a merry chuckle.

“Oh, you bad, bad girl. I should report you,” he teased, making her blush more. “Both of them?”

“No, just the tall one,” she said, gesturing at Sherlock who wore a puzzled expression. John had to admit that despite their two guests speaking English, he didn't understand half of what they were implying. “But he's kind of stubborn.”

John snorted at the understatement.

“I can help you,” Sherlock interrupted, looking straight at the woman.

“No, you can’t. No one can,” she muttered without the slightest hint of hesitation or hope.

“I’m a consulting detective for Scotland Yard,” Sherlock insisted with a touch of pride. “I get called on the more complex,  _ strange  _ cases. I  _ know _ I can help you. I have never failed yet.”

Harry bit his lip and locked eyes with Sherlock, looking like he was actually considering the offer. Then, he glanced at his friend and they seemed to be having a silent conversation until she shook her head, her wild curls bouncing every which way.

“No, Harry. You know they can’t. They’re just mu- It’s just too dangerous, okay? Have you forgotten people  _ died _ because of me?”

She’d hissed those last words, probably hoping not to be heard, but they did, and he could see Sherlock already adding that piece of information to his mind palace. “People” she’d said, so more than just her parents. She wouldn’t have used such a generic word if it had been just her parents. Her lower lip trembled and John could see she was trying very hard not to cry, but she eventually lost the battle and left in a hurry, mumbling an apology and a goodbye on her way out. He looked out the window, seeing her cross the street at a run and a minute later she was back in her flat, closing the curtains once more. The friend she had left behind cleared his throat.

“Well, you two don’t look like such a threat after all. Just… Don’t bother Hermione. She’s had a hard enough life as it is.” 

The young man took his leave after that, the flat suddenly still and quiet after all the excitement. John thought this ranked amongst the strangest evening he had ever experienced. Sherlock looked quite confused too and he sat down, rubbing his temples, something he often did in preparation of entering his mind palace, so John kept quiet.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock interrupted his crossword puzzle, which didn’t really bother John since he doubted he would ever find five-down: ‘nonsensical refusal’, in eight letters.

“What I don’t understand,” Sherlock huffed. “Is that they know exactly who the culprit is. Yet, instead of alerting the authorities and having him arrested, she hides. She can’t prefer living caged in fear rather than free in the open.”

“Maybe they did,” John argued. “Maybe her pursuer is just very good at hiding.”

“And that’s why she needs me,” Sherlock replied, oozing confidence and, let's be honest, arrogance.


	4. Battle of the Armchairs

Hermione flopped down in her couch with a loud sigh once she had managed to convince Harry to leave and return to his family. She hated that he came anywhere near her, that he would put himself in such danger. She also hated that he could still know exactly when she was having a bad day. It’s like he had a mood sensor on her or something, but she knew that was impossible because she regularly made security swipes of her flat herself. She glanced at Crookshanks suspiciously.

_ Surely, he can’t use the floo… _

She might have gotten used to her familiar's quirks but it still startled her when he did something a bit too human. She had grown up a muggle after all and she considered Crookshanks a cat more than anything else. But ratting her out to Harry was precisely something Crookshanks would do, for her own good of course. That old half-kneazle had a mind of its own and she often wondered whom was actually taking care of the other, although she didn't doubt for a second that Crooks considered himself the owner and her, the pet. 

She made herself comfortable on the couch, pulling the throw blanket over herself. She had taken to sleeping here, too afraid to go sleep in her bedroom where she felt more isolated and vulnerable. Here, she had immediate access to the phone that was hidden in a magic-resistant drawer, to the only exit and to the chimney she had illegally hooked to the floo network. She sank into her feathery pillow, trying to relax. She liked to gaze out of the window, watching the white headlights of cars driving by and the soft glow of street lights, watching the moon or rain splashing against the large bay window. The semi-circular bay window with the sitting space that she had heavily cushioned was what she had liked best about this flat and now, it was ruined, all because she had to keep her curtains closed to avoid her neighbours' unwanted scrutiny. It was ridiculous. 

With normal muggles, she would have just bewitched her windows so they would see only a static picture of the inside of her place, but she had a suspicion that these two would see right through it. The tall one talked a lot, liked to show how clever he was, and she had to admit he truly was. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Harry the strange man was smarter than her. In fact, he had seen it first hand and was as befuddled as she was about how he did it. Hermione had to memory charm Mister Holmes once already, that time he had knocked on her door asking for sugar before he confronted her about how she made objects seemingly float in the air. She had been careless, using magic too blatantly in a muggle neighbourhood to make her moving-in swifter. She'd never been caught red-handed before because muggles spent an inordinate amount of time glued to the screen of their TV, phone or computer. But not, as it turned out, her neighbour directly across from her, who was even more observant that the late Alastor Moody and his magical eye. Talk about bad luck.

Even so, she didn’t underestimate the detective's companion, the doctor. He didn’t speak much, but he was always observing, taking everything in, and she couldn’t imagine Mr Holmes wanting to be surrounded by idiots.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

Hermione liked doing her shopping as early as possible to avoid the crowd and the risk of being recognized by anyone from the magical world, however slight the possibility. She had become something of a mythical beast, much like Luna’s crumple-horned snorkack, and any rumours of her whereabouts was quickly published on the front page of the Daily Prophet which she was certain her pursuer consulted regularly. Hermione blamed the magical newspaper for at least one of her narrow escapes from the clutches of that monster.

She couldn’t receive the Daily Prophet herself, of course, that would be like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs leading right to her doorstep, but Harry never failed to send her a patronus to warn her if she had been in the papers.

Today, as early as it was, the street was surprisingly busy with several men leading a sheet-clad Mister Holmes towards a long dark car with tinted windows. She stared wide-eyed at the spectacle and couldn’t help but be worried, her hand twitching towards her concealed wand.

“Are you quite alright, Mister Holmes?” she shouted over to him, wondering if he was really naked under the white sheet. The backlight seemed to indicate he was and she hoped she wasn’t blushing too obviously.

“Good morning, Miss Granger!” he answered with a wink, not seeming bothered in the least that he was being manhandled by several men built like gorillas. “I’m perfectly alright, thank you. It seems I’m very much wanted for a new case.”

He disappeared into the car and it quickly drove off, tires screeching in protest as they rounded the bend in the road. She stood rooted on the spot for a minute before she noticed the man’s elderly landlady watching from the porch.

“Hello, dear,” the kindly woman greeted her. “Are you feeling better today?”

“Erm, yes, thank you. I’m sorry my friend barged in like that the other day. He can be a bit single-minded at times.”  _ Understatement of the year _ , she thought before changing the subject. “Is Mister Holmes in any trouble?” 

“Oh, no. Don’t you worry yourself,” Mrs Hudson reassured her with a shake of her head. “That happens quite a lot, although, I must admit he usually has more clothes on.”

Mrs Hudson then invited her in for a cuppa and Hermione tried to refuse, more out of habit and fear of putting anyone in danger than anything else, but the older woman insisted and Hermione would be lying if she said she didn't  _ crave _ a little company, so she quickly put her groceries away at home and returned to 221 Baker Street for the second time already.

As they sipped on their sweet tea, Mrs Hudson tried to wrestle answers out of Hermione and she had a hell of a time eluding most of the questions by being vague or changing the subject entirely.

“I’m surprised a pretty girl like you doesn’t have a man in her life,” Mrs Hudson teased, as all old ladies are want to do. She half expected to have her cheek pinched. “You don’t have to hide him from me, you know, I doubt he would be my type.”

Hermione sputtered at the very idea, glad she had just finished her tea or she would have sprayed it all over the poor woman sitting across from her. Anyway, she wasn't about to speak about her poor sweet Ron who had died to protect her. Oh no, she had tears pooling in her eyes just thinking about it.

"So... is Mr Holmes a good detective, then?" she asked instead with a tight smile, blinking the tears away and grasping at straws to change the topic once again. She knew he had to be good, though, if someone was willing to go as far as kidnapping him for his services.

"Oh, yes!" Mrs Hudson gushed. "The best, dare I say. He's quite famous actually. I'm surprised you've never heard of his exploits. Have you never come across John's blog on the internet? Surely someone young like you must use it all the time."

Hermione blushed. She knew what the internet was but hadn't used it much. Technology as finicky as modern computers just kind of...fizzed out after she used them for too long and she had given up on owning one after the second time it happened. Even her phone, she never used more than ten minutes at a time and only in case of emergencies. The rest of the time, it was locked away in a magic-proof drawer.

"No, I don't. I'm not very tech-savvy, to be honest, but I'd love to read his blog someday,” she finally replied, thinking she could go to the public library and ask them to print out a few pages of the blog for her in exchange of a discrete tip or a flirtatious batting of eyelashes, depending on the employee.

“We could do that right now!” Mrs Hudson said, gripping her hand and pulling her up the stairs. “John always leaves his computer lying around and Sherlock told me his password yesterday because he found it ridiculously easy to guess.”

Mrs Hudson was surprisingly strong despite her age, but Hermione could hardly stupefy the poor woman. She was just trying to be kind and entertain her reclusive neighbour. She let herself into the two men’s flat like it was her own domain, but then it probably was since she was the landlady, and Hermione sheepishly followed her in, feeling like she was doing something illegal. Even after seven years spent trailing Ron and Harry, she had never gotten the hang of rule breaking. It just didn’t come naturally to her. However, once she entered the living-room and spotted the two armchairs still crowded around the window that overlooked her flat, she wasn’t feeling guilty at all anymore.

“What have those two been up to again?” Mrs Hudson muttered, looking at the two bulky armchairs, trying to nudge one back without much success.

“Here, let me,” Hermione said, glad to get the opportunity to set things back to right. 

She tugged the bigger chair that was a solid grey modern lump, and huffed. Damn these things were heavy without magic. She went around it instead, glancing out the window and noting what they saw of her flat, but also what they didn’t see, filing it away in her mind in case she needed the information later on. Then, she pushed the large armchair with all her strength. It was easier this way, but she still puffed and grunted at the heavy work. She would usually use magic for such a task and be done with it in a matter of seconds. 

Once she had reinstated the armchairs to their original spot, thanks to Mrs Hudson’s guidance, Hermione sank into the second, older reddish one with a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Gryffindor common room and she found some amount of comfort from it. She debated jinxing the furniture so it stuck permanently to the floor. That way, she could keep her curtains open, but it probably wasn’t worth the trouble. She didn’t need the agents of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts sniffing around. No, she would just have to hope she got her point across their thick heads simply by having moved the armchairs back to where they belonged.

Mrs Hudson meanwhile had turned on a laptop computer and displayed a screen with a triumphant “Aha!” which made Hermione smile. Mrs Hudson was nothing like her own grandma who was scared of microwaves and liked to badmouth everyone all day, from the mailman to the neighbours to foreigners in general. No, Mrs Hudson was actually  _ fun _ .

The laptop was thrust into her hands, but Hermione chose to set it on the table next to her rather than on her lap, even it it meant having to crane her neck at an awkward angle to be able to read. She hoped the lack of direct contact would prevent it from dying in an eruption of sparks, as that would be quite hard to explain.

The displayed page was effectively Doctor Watson's blog, all in shades of soft green with a small photo of him smiling on the sidebar, and beneath it, a larger picture of Mister Holmes wearing a ridiculous hat with flaps tied to the top: a deerstalker, if she wasn’t mistaken. Lucky for Holmes he was good-looking or that hat would have lost him some fans, but as it was, he managed to pull it off, probably thanks to those high cheekbones and clear blue eyes.

Hermione started to read and found it was fascinating: a retelling of an investigation that read like an adventure you’d read in a novel, far from the boring account or factual police report that she had been expecting. She was quite engrossed in it, almost reaching the unravelling of the case, and reached out to scroll down the page once more when the screen glitched. Hermione recoiled and jumped out of the seat, putting as much distance between her and the machine as possible. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked, looking owlishly from her to the computer that was thankfully not displaying any more symptoms of imminent explosion.

“Yes… Fine. I just remembered… an appointment. Sorry, Mrs Hudson. I had a great time, I really did, but I have to go now.”

Hermione ran down the stairs and was almost out the door when Doctor Watson pushed it open, holding his taller friend up as best he could against the frame. Holmes looked… clothed, was her first thought, she was ashamed to say, but the detective was also completely unconscious.

“Oh, Miss Granger, hi,” John grunted under the other man’s weight. “Could you give me a hand? I never would have guessed he was this heavy.”

“Uh - sure,” she answered taken aback as she went to Mister Holmes' right side.

She tucked the man's limp arm around her shoulder and snaked her own around his waist to support his weight, brushing against the doctor's arm who was holding him up the same way.

“What happened to him? I gather he’s not just sleeping, but he doesn’t smell drunk either.”

“No,” the doctor grunted. “He was drugged by a woman. I guess even Sherlock has his blind spot.”

“One of his fans?” she asked, knowing Harry had had similar mishaps from over-enthusiastic admirers.

“Not exactly… but I don’t think she wanted to harm him either, so he’ll just have to sleep it off.”

Hermione nodded. From what she could feel being this close to Holmes, he wasn’t overly hot or clammy and his heart-rate was quite normal. Certainly nothing life-threatening. They finally made their way into the flat Hermione had just fled from, Mrs Hudson leaping up and fretting over the detective once they had dropped him on his bed.

Meanwhile, Hermione reclaimed the red armchair, panting from the exertion of hauling Holmes up the stairs. He really was heavy despite looking all skin and bones. Merlin, she missed magic sometimes. Mrs Hudson left, muttering under her breath, but Doctor Watson soon returned, looking at her in a funny way before sitting in the grey armchair.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione suddenly exclaimed. “I’m sitting in your chair, aren’t I?”

The man chuckled, putting her at ease.

“Don’t worry, you’ve earned it,” he told her. “I was surprised to see you here, actually. Did you just sneak in while we were gone to pull our chairs away from the window?”

“I did not! I was having tea with Mrs Hudson -who didn’t approve of your new sitting arrangement either, might I add- and she wanted to show me your blog so..." she replied with a nervous look at the computer still standing open, and, apparently, still functioning.

"And what did you think of it?" he asked, smiling kindly.

Hermione smiled back despite herself. The doctor had a soothing, tranquil aura about him, she realized, much like Luna and Neville did.

"It's brilliant!" she replied excitedly, sitting on the edge of her seat as she usually did when sharing her opinion on a book she had just read and enjoyed.

"Yes, Sherlock has that effect on people," he said with a knowing smirk.

"Well, yes, that too," she admitted. "His deductions and observational skills are undeniable and quite unique, but I bet that if Mister Holmes wrote it, it would be as boring as reading the phone directory, and as digest as a brick. But your account... I was totally engrossed in it! It was so exciting!"

She paused, her eyes locked with the doctor's for an instant and she blushed at what she’d just said right to his face. He didn't help matters by blushing too and she sprang up, mumbled a hurried goodbye, and dashed  through the door once more, wondering how she could have just moved in next door and yet, already managed to run out of this place  _ three times _ : once in tears, once in fear and once in embarrassment. Quite a feat, really.

  
  



	5. In Plain Sight

Sherlock woke to a strange, alien sound, finding it came from his mysteriously returned phone in his mysteriously returned coat. He searched in the dark shrouding his bedroom for The Woman, Irene Adler, certain she must be there and he might even have called after her as he stumbled about, but he only found John, his good friend John who must have sent him to bed once more because he woke up a second time, but to sunlight this time and feeling more like himself.

He entered the living-room and raised an eyebrow at the armchairs which had migrated back to their original places.

“Not me,” John told him over his newspaper. “You-know-who was here yesterday... and look who’s here today: your dear brother.”

“Mycroft,” he grumbled, taking his place at the table for a bite of toast and tea.

He was feeling unusually hungry today, probably because of the drugs, and it allowed him the time to take stock of John, who was glancing more often than usual towards the window, of Mycroft, who never gave anything away whatever the circumstances, and of the rest of the flat, in search of anything else Miss Granger might have tampered with. He’d become a bit more weary of her since she’d confirmed she had tampered with his mind somehow during her argument with her friend Harry. Sherlock still hadn’t figured out how, and he was seriously considering hypnotism after having eliminated all other venues. But his mind palace seemed whole and functional so he wasn’t sure what to think.

“Who is this you-know-who you speak of?” Mycroft asked, looking like he was mocking them but actually sounding interested.

“No one of interest to you. It has nothing to do with this particular case,” Sherlock replied before they started their usual sparring with wits and words.

Sherlock reckoned he had won this round: there was nothing Mycroft could do against Irene Adler for now and Sherlock knew his brother was hiding something very important pertaining to this case that had nothing to do with kinky photos. If he wanted to use him again to do his legwork, he’d either have to give in to Irene Adler or stop hiding his secrets from him, both of which were equally distasteful to Mycroft,  so Sherlock drove him away with the screeches of his fiddle.

“So tell me, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock asked his favourite landlady once she had come up to join them after the front door slammed shut after his brother’s large behind. “What did you learn about our dear neighbour?”

“Sherlock?” John asked, frowning. “Don’t tell me you made Mrs Hudson spy on her too?”

“Oh, no, John,” the old lady intervened, patting his hand in a reassuring manner. “We just chatted around a nice cuppa. She looked like she needed it after seeing Sherlock half-naked.”

“I’m sorry- What?” John sputtered.

_ The bedsheet, _ Sherlock mouthed, amused to see how relieved his friend looked.

“So what have you learned?” he asked again and the woman had a surprisingly long list of information to share, making John's eyebrows rise with every addition.

Apparently, Miss Granger’s birthday was on the 19th of september but she wouldn’t be celebrating it and hasn’t for a while now. She has lived in France, Ireland and Australia, and probably more. She's had her cat since she was thirteen and her boyfriend was probably killed in tragic circumstances. Interesting.

“I let her use your computer, John, to show her your blog. I hope you don’t mind," Mrs Hudson continued.

“Not at all, she told me about it,” John answered and Sherlock wondered what she'd said exactly that John didn’t want to share.

“Well, she knew how to use the laptop well enough, but she touched it as little as possible and even jumped away from it after a while as if she was afraid. I couldn’t see anything wrong with the computer, so I don’t understand her reaction. Do you think she has technicopho- Oh, you know, fear of technology, like you said, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned.

“No, or she would not have used it in the first place,” he concluded. “It must be something else, but what?”

“Shouldn’t we -you know- leave her alone? In peace?” John asked, biting his lip the way he did when they stepped a bit too far past his moral compass. “It’s obviously what she wants.”

“No,” Sherlock stated in a tone that brooked no arguments.

Their neighbour was just too interesting, as much as Irene Adler, although in a very different way. Besides, he needed something to distract his mind until a new case came their way, and Hermione Granger would fill his free time perfectly. She was his long-term project, so to speak, unless she finally realized she was being an idiot and  _ asked _ for his help. John got up from the table and paced around the room before posting himself at the window, looking across the street. He smiled.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, approaching to look over his shoulder. Well, over his head, in reality, but he didn't want to seem belittling.

“Her curtains are open.” John told him.

Sherlock wanted to tell him to stop stating the obvious but observed the neighbour’s flat instead, letting a chuckle escape his lips. Miss Granger had carefully moved around her furniture, added some large-leafed plants and a folding screen so that there was very little they could actually see of the place, except if she sat right in the window’s sitting area.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

“Boring,” Sherlock said, refusing yet another inane ‘case’.

They were un-cases as far as he was concerned, not even worthy of a real name. He slumped back in his armchair, watching the cracks in the ceiling while the pseudo-clients scuttled out and John glared at him.

“You could at least  _ try  _ to be civil,” John admonished.

“They’re the ones who are not being civil by making me WASTE MY TIME!” he retorted, hoping those last idiots heard him.

He was getting bored, he didn’t like it when boredom started creeping in on the edges of his consciousness. He could feel his brain turning to mush with every passing second. He needed a distraction, he needed it badly, and right now. He walked over to the window and glanced across the street: as usual, open curtains, no sign of the occupant.

“Why is she hiding?” he asked aloud.

“We already knew she was hiding, and we also know why,” John answered, not that Sherlock had been expecting an intelligent answer.

“Yes, but not like this. She hasn’t asked for my help yet and she even refused Mrs Hudson's invitation to tea. It's been a week with no development! It's so dull!”

“Well, she probably figured out Mrs Hudson was spying on her. She’s not stupid, you know."

“That, I  _ don’t _ know, because she won’t come speak to us,” Sherlock replied, getting more and more frustrated.  “Or at least to me. What did you do to her, John?”

Sherlock observed his friend’s reaction: he first looked shocked -good, that meant he hadn’t sabotaged his project on purpose- before he fought off a blush, a losing battle with a complexion like his.

“Nothing,” he replied a bit too defensively.

But Sherlock believed him nonetheless: the initial surprise couldn’t be faked. John hadn’t even thought he might be the cause of their neighbour’s added reclusiveness. His pupils hadn’t dilated either or his eyes darted away as he claimed nothing had happened so he wasn’t lying. Nothing had happened… so why was he blushing?

“Oh, no,” Sherlock sighed after a moment's consideration, matching his current expression with the myriad others he had stocked in his mind palace. “You  _ like _ her, don’t you? Tell me you didn’t do anything stupid like asking her out on a date or speaking about… sentiments,” Sherlock spat the word.

Feelings... that was always so much trouble. It made people act irrationally, unpredictably. His phone sighed loudly. He read the message and pocketed it again without letting any flicker of emotion cross his features.  _ See, John,  _ he thought,  _ Easy. No feelings necessary. _

"No! I did nothing of the sort, I swear," John insisted, gesticulating his hands in protest. "We just… had a moment, I guess you could call it. And what is wrong with your phone? Why is it making that sound?"

"What does that even mean? A moment?" Sherlock scolded his friend, purposefully ignoring his question and pushing him towards the front door. "You broke it, you fix it. I need data."

"What am I supposed to do?" John protested, trying to push past him but he was smaller and didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, even when he was being this annoying.

"What you usually do with women," Sherlock replied, but paused to think it over. "Only better, if you don't mind. Try to  _ seduce _ the information out of her, if you must."

John froze.

"That's... That's disgusting, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why was his friend being so difficult? If he liked the woman, he wasn't asking much of a sacrifice from him.

"Oh, alright:  _ woo _ her, then. Read her poetry and be her knight in shining armor. That’s your thing, right? Just… fix it, John, I need this," Sherlock repeated, before adding between gritted teeth: "Please?"

Yes, he was that desperate for something to occupy his mind.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

"Hello, Mycroft!" Sherlock heard John say loudly as he descended the stairs. “Sherlock is in one of his moods, have fun!”

_ Damn! What does he want now?  _ he thought, opening the window and peering down to see if he could evade his annoying brother through there. 

Alas, he only saw John grinning from the street and waving at him before entering the building opposite. Well, at least he was doing what he asked of him.

"Hello, Sherlock. Still in your dressing gown, I see,” he heard from behind him.

"Mycroft," he muttered, turning around with a billow of said dressing gown, just to annoy him. “What do you want?”

“Is that anyway to greet your brother, uhm?”

“Oh, cut the crap, Mycroft. You’re here because you want something from me, and I imagine it has something to do with that overly large envelope you stuffed in your inside pocket. You know that will ruin the seams. What will your tailor say?” Sherlock sniped then extended his hand, because he was curious.

Mycroft sighed and took out the envelope before handing it to Sherlock.

“You mentioned a name a while back, a certain Hermione Granger. I advised you to stay clear, but I doubt you would have listened to good sense. Is this her?” Mycroft asked him when Sherlock had carefully opened the envelope and taken out the blown-up photo inside.

Sherlock was careful not to let anything show, although he had recognized his neighbour immediately. It was a bland picture, the kind you took to put on an official document. Judging by the uniform she wore, he would imagine it was for her employee’s file, but it was not a uniform he had ever seen before: a lime green colour that didn’t flatter her at all, with an emblem on the right-hand side that had been blurred, for his benefit no doubt. It looked like a cross of some sort, with writing around it. Miss Granger was younger in this picture by maybe five years, but it was hard to tell with her as she already looked younger than she should. She looked happier in the picture too, a smile almost reaching her lips and her eyes less haunted than they were now. Probably taken before her parents' deaths, the dates coincided.

“Maybe,” he answered, returning the photo as if he had lost interest in it. “Why are you looking for her?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Well, then, neither can I,” Sherlock snapped. “Do you take me for a fool, Mycroft? If you’re interested in her, I’m sure it can’t be for anything good.”

“I assure you it’s for her own good,” Mycroft said, his lips set in a thin line. “Her… people have been looking for her for quite some time. She’s important to them and they want to protect her.”

Strange that. At least one of her friends, this Harry, knew exactly where she was, so it would probably be more correct to say, a part of her people were looking for her to protect her, while another part was complicit in her hiding to protect herself. She was the focal point of a tug-of-war between two factions, it seemed. Interesting.

“I’d say if her own people can’t find her, and you can’t either, then she’s doing a pretty good job at protecting herself.”

“Yes, well, they wouldn’t know how to find her… here.”

“Here in London?” Sherlock asked but received only a vague hum of acknowledgement which he couldn’t translate one way or another. “I’m more surprised that  _ you _ haven’t found her, Mycroft. I thought you had eyes everywhere and a hand in everything.” 

Mycroft scowled.

"If it was so easy to find people who don't want to be found, we would have full prisons and no criminality to speak of. It seems Miss Granger pays cash for her needs and she has no subscription to speak of, not even to the water and electrical companies. She doesn't even have a bank account to track her by. It’s most… frustrating."

"Really?" Sherlock said, his interest piqued. "Maybe she uses an alias?"

"She didn't with you," Mycroft pointed out.

"Yes, well, I'm special, aren't I?" he mocked, knowing he was irritating his brother at a whole new level. Mycroft never liked sharing his toys.

"And you know where she is," Mycroft concluded, not bothering with a question this time. "Damnit, Sherlock, this is not a game! These people are pressuring me to find the girl!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother losing his carefully crafted facade of cold indifference.

"You almost sound afraid, brother. I thought  _ you _ were the British government?"

"There's much more to this world than you realize, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered. "And part of it is beyond even your grasp, or mine for that matter. If you do not want to inform me, then at least do not get involved with this person," his brother said, pointing an accusing finger at the woman's photo. "She is more dangerous than you can imagine."

Sherlock laughed, then. The first, real, mirthful laugh he'd had in too long a time. First, because the woman looked so very harmless. But also because his own brother didn't know him at all for telling him to steer clear of danger.

"Mycroft, really. If you didn't want me to approach this woman, you should have told me how utterly, brain-numbingly  _ boring _ she is. You only made my interest grow."

Mycroft actually ran a hand through his thinning hair.

"You're unbelievable, Sherlock. Just... At least, let her know, will you? So I can somewhat pretend that I did my job," Mycroft said, straightening himself and making his way to the door.

"Of course," Sherlock answered dismissively, not sure if he would really do it or not.

At the door, Mycroft couldn't leave without a parting shot. He liked having the last word just as much as Sherlock did, and he had already lost their last verbal battle.

"Don't say I didn't warn you. I really  _ won't  _ be able to help you this time, however much I'd want to."

Sherlock stared at his brother's receding back as he started down the stairs. He had almost sounded 

...resigned? Sad? Afraid? Hard to tell. Sentiment.

Sherlock snorted and picked up his violin. A little music would help him sort out all this new information Mycroft had so freely given him.

  
  
  



	6. Withdrawal Symptoms

John stared at the door to Miss Granger’s apartment, his hand raised, ready to knock. Why had he let Sherlock convince him to do this already? John was not good with women. Sure, he somehow managed to blunder his way into inviting one out on a date now and then, but he couldn’t say he was very successful at the whole dating thing. When he'd been younger, sure, but now, with all his bagages and Sherlock in tow, it was usually over before it had even started. You only had to look at how short the relationships usually turned out to be. In fact the last one didn’t go beyond a couple of dates before she found a good reason to ‘just be friends’ and promptly pulled a disappearing act worthy of Houdini. The one before that had been jealous of Sherlock and accused him of cheating on her… with him, which was completely ludicrous, because he wasn't gay and Sherlock didn't do relationships. 

Sometimes John wondered if there was something wrong with himself, or if it was only his 'special' relationship with Sherlock that put women off.  _ Probably both _ , he decided, but he never once considered  ditching Sherlock to keep a girlfriend. They were friends, best friends even, had somehow become inseparable so you couldn’t have the one without the other, and he was fine with it, girlfriends be damned.

John let his arm fall down and turned around. What was the point? He couldn’t do it and would only be making a fool of himself. But then, before he could flee down the stairs, he heard all sets of bolts turn at once and the door opened.

“Hello, Doctor Watson. Is there something wrong?” she asked softly, not meeting his eyes. “Only, you’ve been standing there for five minutes and I was getting worried.”

“Call me John, please,” he answered once he had gotten over his surprise. “We’re neighbours after all.”

“Only if you call me Hermione,” she said after a short pause, before beckoning him in and showing him to the couch. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” he replied, looking at the changes she had made because of them. 

Fortunately, it didn’t look like she was boarding herself up in a dark, comfortable prison. The large-leafed plants she had placed near the bay window leaving more than enough light to filter through while blocking the view quite effectively.

“Do you like the changes?” she asked, returning rapidly with a platter of warm tea and cookies.

She sat next to him, tucking her feet under her.

“Very much, and we haven’t moved the chairs back to the window if that makes you feel any better,” he offered, feeling guilty for their former blatant spying. Not that they were not spying anymore, they were just doing it in a different way. “I’m sorry about that, by the way, but once Sherlock gets an idea in his head, there’s not much I can do to change his mind or even curb his maniacal tendencies,” John chuckled. “I just made him sound like a psychopath, didn’t I?”

Hermione smiled sadly.

“Oh, I know he isn’t,” she replied. “I know one when I see one. Besides, doesn’t he call himself a high-functioning sociopath?”

“You’re still reading my blog?” he asked, looking around for a laptop but still not seeing any device that told him they were effectively in the twenty-first century.

Hermione blushed and pointed at a pile of papers sitting on the table tucked behind the couch, recognizing print-outs of his blog pages.

“You should think about compiling them into a book,” she said. “With the comments because some of those are very funny.”

“For people who don’t like computers?” he teased.

“For people like me, yes,” she replied, eyes twinkling, before she launched off in a rapid babble of all she had enjoyed and found fascinating in his accounts, asking a few questions about the shortcuts in Sherlock's deductions she hadn’t managed to piece out.

She was brilliant in her own way, he realised, and she came alive as she spoke of something she truly enjoyed. John could glimpse the young woman she had once been, before all that fear and sorrow made her into a shadow of herself, cutting herself off from the rest of the world. He couldn’t help but notice how charming she was despite it, even clad as she was in an oversized hand-made jumper with a big H on the front and her hair in a messy ponytail. She was a natural beauty, he decided, and he liked that. But then what didn’t he like about the mysterious woman. She was kind, smart and was even capable of standing up to Sherlock, which regrettably didn’t happen all that often.

“So what really brings you here, John? Except fishing for compliments about your blog?” she asked with a teasing smile when their conversation had lulled to a stop.

“Well, I...erm, that is to say, we, with Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson too, we were worried about you. We haven’t seen you for over a week…”

“I’m not very sociable,” she said, averting her eyes. A lie? Or just embarrassed? Damn, Sherlock should be here,  _ he _ was the ambulatory lie detector after all.

“Neither is Sherlock,” he finally pointed out, making her snort in a very unlady-like fashion.

“Sorry,” she said covering her mouth. “No, I guess you’re right, but… it’s not a good idea to be around me. You’re a good man, John Watson,” she added, touching his arm lightly. “And so is Mister Holmes, I suppose, somewhere deep down. And I really like Mrs Hudson. But I refuse to put all of you in danger. You shouldn’t even be here.”

John felt his heart twinge as she whispered the last words. What a miserable existence she must be leading, avoiding all human contact and warmth. Even Sherlock couldn’t deprive himself of all human contact, despite what he claimed.

“You read my blog,” John countered. “Hanging out with me and Sherlock is not exactly safe either. Did you read the Blind Banker?”

Comparing Hermione to Sarah, who he had been dating at the time was a bit cheeky of him, but Hermione wasn’t easily flustered apparently. Or maybe she was as oblivious to flirting as Sherlock was. It would be just his luck to stumble upon another asexual who was married to… well, not to her work, obviously, but married to her fear.

“True,” she murmured with a small nod, “But this is different.”

Hermione set her empty cup on the coffee table with an air of finality and stood. John felt obliged to follow suit, knowing when he was being kicked out, even if it was in such a polite fashion.

“I think you should go, John. I shouldn’t have kept you so long,” she told him as she walked him to the door. “Say hello to Mrs Hudson for me.”

“Hermione,” John tried once more, catching her hand in his. “You shouldn’t cut yourself off like that. It’s not healthy.”

“I know, Doctor,” she answered with a wan smile. “But it’s safer for you.”

She let go of him and closed the door before he could find another argument. He cursed under his breath and stomped all the way down the stairs before he did something stupid, like punch a wall.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

“How did it go? You’ve been there a while so it can’t have been as disastrous as I anticipated,” Sherlock said as soon as he had passed the threshold.

John narrowed his eyes at his flatmate. Everything was a game to him. He completely disregarded people’s suffering when there was a puzzle to be solved, and Hermione had that in spades.

“Oh, piss off, Sherlock,” John spat before stomping past him and slamming the door to his bedroom. 

There. That had been oddly therapeutic and his hand was still whole, no need to punch a wall after all.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

  
  


The next morning, John entered the living-room, fully expecting to have his brain picked by the detective about his encounter with Hermione the previous day, but Sherlock had somehow understood he better leave him alone for a while, or, more likely, Mrs Hudson had advised him to. Either way, he was grateful for the reprieve and was now ready to apologize for his rudeness and share what had been said, although he doubted there was any new data there to satisfy the detective.

However, he found his flatmate standing before the wide open window in his bathrobe, holding a bow in front of him with the cord stretched taut and an arrow notched. He didn’t even know Sherlock owned a bow.

“For God’s sake! Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?” he asked as he hurried by his side.

He seemed to be aiming the arrow straight at Hermione’s apartment and his heartbeat suddenly increased.

“Sherlock!” he protested.

He could see Hermione sprawled on the cushions in the bay window sitting area, still wearing the knitted jumper he had seen her in the previous day. It looked like she had fallen asleep while reading, considering all the books lying haphazardly around her.

“Isn’t it obvious, John?” Sherlock asked calmly, before taking a deep breath, holding then letting loose the arrow.

It spiralled away at considerable speed before landing with a resounding  _ twang _ right in the wooden window frame nearest Hermione’s head. She jerked awake, searching, no doubt, for the source of danger.

“I’m inviting her to breakfast,” Sherlock concluded with a bright smile as John dragged both hands down his face.

“It’s too early for this, Sherlock,” John muttered. “I can’t take your madness this early in the morning. Not without coffee.”

The two of them observed Hermione as she finally spotted the long arrow, and John only just noticed the small piece of paper wrapped around the front of the wooden shaft. She opened the window and dislodged the arrow out of the woodwork to open the missive, sending the both of them a withering glare that would have frozen hell over.

“I think that means she’s not coming,” John said, going to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“She will,” Sherlock replied, setting his bow down and waiting at the table for breakfast to magically appear, meaning John had to do all the work.

He had just finished preparing a plateful of toasts, setting it down on the table next to Sherlock when they both heard female voices chattering amiably as they walked up the stairs. John locked eyes with Sherlock.

“Just what did you write on that note?” he demanded, but Sherlock was saved giving an answer when the two women entered.

Mrs Hudson took a seat in front of Sherlock and patted the chair next to her.

“Come and sit down, dear,” she told Hermione, whose scowl-from-hell had thankfully melted to a piss-off-frown.

Hermione complied and stuck the arrow right under Sherlock's nose, tip in the toast he'd just buttered.

“I think this is yours, Mr Holmes,” she said coldly. “That was really stupid, not to mention dangerous.”

“No it wasn’t,” Sherlock disagreed, unperturbed by her anger. “I have perfect mastery of my aim. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”

Hermione huffed and apparently chose to ignore Sherlock as she rounded on him instead, her face softening.

“Good morning, John. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”

“Hermione,” he nodded. “I swear I had no idea what he was up to. As I said, once he has an idea in his head…”

“Yes, I don’t think I quite realized the extent of your meaning at the time. Foolish of me, I suppose.”

John smiled at her, happy to see Hermione surrounded by people and talking openly to Mrs Hudson now, laughing when she was told of the time Sherlock had created a hole through the floor with acid so he could tell her to go buy some milk.

“First name basis?” Sherlock whispered in his ear as he leaned towards him. “Well done, John. I knew you had it in you.”

John just glared at him, feeling he was being mocked, and buttered another toast.

“What are you two plotting over there?” Mrs Hudson scolded.

“Nothing!” they replied at the same time, sitting ramrod straight, which only made them sound very suspicious, but it made Hermione laugh.

“I'm sorry,” she said in between guffaws, trying to hide behind her hands. “You sounded so much like the twins just now.”

_ The twins?  _ Sherlock mouthed at him. 

John shrugged, he had no idea who that was, but he was enjoying the spectacle of the laughing woman. No one should be as lonely as she forced herself to be. John had been through it himself, not even by choice, and he didn't wish it on anyone.  Maybe Sherlock would manage to make her join them at breakfast every day.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

Over a week later, John woke up to prepare breakfast and hoped, not for the first time, that he would see Sherlock with his bow aimed at their neighbour’s window. Hermione had not come back since the breakfast they had shared all together like a mismatched but happy family. He knew without a doubt she had enjoyed herself, even warming a little to Sherlock as he tried to get her interested in the strangest subjects after finding out she had a vast knowledge of plants that surpassed even his own.

John walked over to the empty window and peered into her flat, but he couldn’t see her sitting in the bay window and the rest of her place was still invisible from this vantage point. He bit his lip. Maybe something had happened to her. Maybe she had slipped in her bathtub and hit her head… 

“Nothing has happened to her,” Sherlock said, standing right behind him.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John protested, stumbling back into him, his hand covering his racing heart with one hand while he held himself steady against the window frame with the other. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

“I wasn’t sneaking, I was ambushing.”

Sherlock was a real kid when he put his mind to it, so John ignored him until he recalled his previous words.

“How do you know Hermione is not in trouble?”

“She’s in her guilt phase at the moment. Give her a few days and she’ll be in her needy phase again. She will be like putty in your hands by then, John.”

“What?” John asked, his eyes glazing over as he tried to recall all they had said that morning and the previous days to arrive to this deduction. Surely he was missing some part of the conversation because what Sherlock had said just now made no sense to him whatsoever. “What?” he repeated.

“Drink your coffee first, John. I don’t like repeating myself and you’re as coherent as Anderson right now.”

John scowled but complied, fixing himself a mug of strong black coffee, no sugar, with toast and jam, deliberately not making anything for Sherlock. Not that he often ate what he prepared anyway, but this was payback for his childish prank.

“Miss Granger is a target of a very violent and persistent killer. He’s probably obsessed with her and that obsession will carry over to the people she frequents,” Sherlock paused, looking at him.

“Us, and Mrs Hudson,” John concluded, because so far, except for the one time her green-eyed friend had shown up, Hermione was a recluse.

“Very good, I see you’re waking up. So, every time Miss Granger socializes with us, she feels very remorseful, knowing it may put us in danger, which triggers a phase of guilt where she disappears for days, or even weeks, at a time.”

John cursed, ready to go over there and knock her door down if necessary.

“But she’s only human,” Sherlock continued. “So human contact becomes a need that is harder to ignore as the days go by. You know something of that, John,” Sherlock said, gazing at him with those inscrutable aquamarine eyes of his. “And we’re readily available, willing even. She has an outlet for the loneliness she’s feeling, which makes resisting it all that much harder.”

“If you think I'm going to take advantage of her -what did you call it?- 'needy phase' to worm the information out of her for your entertainment, then you're seriously mistaken, Sherlock Holmes,” John said sternly.

“No, I know you won't,” Sherlock replied easily enough. “I know you better than that. It's a shame to let such an opportunity go to waste, though. I just wanted to reassure you our dear neighbor is, in fact, well and whole, and has merely locked herself away for a while.”

John nodded grimly.

“How do you figure this out, anyway? Don't you need more data to prove such a theory.”

“Oh, no. I had more than enough. I already knew she would be doing this after her breakfast with us, but it's nice when the facts all fall neatly into place like dominoes and prove you right.”

John wanted to punch his flatmate in the face, just a little, but he thought back to their interactions with Hermione instead. Shouldn’t he have noticed this pattern before himself? 

She had first come over trailing after her green-eyed friend and then promptly disappeared behind her curtains for several days, he wasn't sure how long. Then she had taken tea with Mrs Hudson and helped him heave Sherlock up the stairs and into his bed... And promptly disappeared for over a week... Before Sherlock sent him over and they talked for several hours, and Sherlock got her to come for breakfast the next day, but now, she was hiding away again and it had been...nine days since then. He could see the pattern now and its destructive behaviour.

“This can't go on,” John muttered under his breath.

  
  



	7. The Case of the Ugly Antiques

Sherlock paced in front of the chimney. John had gone to the surgery for work and Mrs Hudson had left on whatever errands landlady's did, so he had no one to take out his frustration on and it was annoying him that much more. The lack of interesting cases lately had drawn him to complete a few experiments he had left lying around, but he was not happy with the results, and now he was left with nothing else to do, having run out of cartilage to renew his tests.

_ Cross Contamination,  _ he could hear John's voice saying in the back of his mind.  _ That's what you get for storing severed limbs in the middle of the fridge. _

That was how Sherlock found himself on the precipice of boredom, so it was with unusual enthusiasm that he answered the knock on the door.

"Come in!" he chirped.

"Sherlock? Erm, is this a good time?" Detective Inspector Lestrade asked hesitantly as he poked his head in.

"Certainly. Please bother me, Lestrade."

Lestrade took a few steps in, but stopped short and stared at him with a puzzled expression. The one he usually wore when he couldn't follow his deductions, even the simplest of them.

"What?" Sherlock finally asked when the awkward silence had stretched on for far too long.

"There's something wrong with your face," Lestrade answered slowly. "Oh, blimey! Is that a smile? You shouldn't do that, Sherlock, it's downright creepy. Make it go away."

Sherlock scowled. He hadn't been smiling, had he? He wanted to prove the detective inspector wrong but he could feel the strain in his cheek muscles. He must have reached the pits of despair if he was happy to see Lestrade.

"You better have something good," Sherlock said.

"I think you'll like it," Lestrade assured him with his easy grin. "It's only a robbery, mind you, but it has the whole police baffled."

"Baffled sounds good," he agreed, while thinking it was even better this was a robbery instead of the usual homicide.

"John around?" Lestrade asked, looking behind him for his friend, which he found a bit insulting for John. He wasn’t  _ that _ small.

"No. Work. Boring," Sherlock answered in a monotone while he took out his bow and threw the window open, inhaling the sharp cold air of London after a night of drizzle.

He could hear Lestrade sputtering in protest as he aimed and let the arrow loose with a resounding  _ twang _ .

"Right, then. Let's go.” Sherlock said and clapped his hands to emphasize his point. “That robbery is not going to solve itself, now, is it?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a little push in the right direction as he stood rooted to the spot, gaping at him and still trying to form a coherent sentence.

"Did- Did you just… Why? Why would you do that?"

"All will become clear, Lestrade. Follow me. Come on," Sherlock told the DI and lead the way down the stairs.

He smirked when he heard Lestrade scramble to catch up with him and they were soon out in the street.

"Ah, perfect timing," Sherlock said as he eyed his approaching neighbour.

She strode towards them with a furious expression on her face, clutching his arrow in her fist and shaking it angrily in his direction.

"I told you not to do that again. It's downright dangerous."

Sherlock snorted. How could she consider his careful aim dangerous when she was being pursued by a psychopathic, at least triple-murderer? Women were such nonsensical creatures.

"You’ll have to admit it’s very effective to lure you out, though. 100% success rate so far," Sherlock pointed out before being interrupted by Lestrade's not so discreet cough.

"Who's this, Sherlock?"

"Yes, of course. Lestrade, this is a new friend, she will be my John for the day since he’s out."

"You, Mister Holmes, don't get to decide that," she replied, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Oh, really," he replied, feigning being wounded. "But first, may I introduce you to the very official Detective Inspector Lestrade, the finest policeman of all New Scotland Yard."

_ Oh, yes. This is definitely entertaining _ , Sherlock thought as he struggled not to appear too smug. His neighbour was debating with herself, he could see the cogwheels turning and the conclusion she would inevitably reach. She wouldn't want her full name advertised more than necessary, especially not to an official government agent like Lestrade.

"Pleased to meet you," she said, extending her trembling hand to shake Lestrade's but the inspector was too busy eyeing Sherlock curiously to notice. Finest policeman indeed. “I’m Jean.”

Sherlock noted the lack of hesitation, so Jean was either her middle name or just an alias she commonly used, and filed the information away in his mind palace. She had a full drawer just for herself in there and he was thinking of adding a second. Only John had had that honour before, even if he had much more space dedicated to him now.

"You seem… normal," Lestrade commented as he looked her over. "Well, except for the whole Sherlock summoning you with an arrow like some demented cupid. How do you know Sherlock, anyway?"

"Jean is my long-term project," Sherlock answered before she could. "And she'll be assisting me today, won't you,  _ Jean _ ?"

The woman scowled but nodded docilely and Sherlock did not miss the way she was patting her side as if she was feeling for a concealed weapon the way John sometimes did. He had noticed that quirk a couple of times already, but he couldn’t figure out what she was hiding. It wasn't bulky enough for a firearm but it wasn't a place you usually concealed knives, either.

Lestrade shrugged, not minding whoever Sherlock fancied bringing along, as long as he solved his cases, and they all got in the car.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

"Will you look at that," Anderson sneered as soon as they reached the crime scene. "The freak brought his girlfriend along. Did Watson finally come to his senses and dump you?"

Sherlock ignored him completely and brushed past him, knowing the snap of his coattails would annoy him to no end when they hit him in the shins. His neighbour however, wasn't as forgiving and turned to Lestrade.

"What is this, Detective Inspector Lestrade? Kindergarten?" and she followed him in, but they heard Lestrade feeling compelled to berate the man for his immaturity and she caught up to him to give him a thumbs up that Sherlock wasn’t sure how to answer to, or if he even had to, so he made a note to ask John later on. 

Once his eyes got accustomed to the poor light inside, Sherlock surveyed the scene. It was one of his favourite kind of cases: a locked-door mystery. An antiquarian, a cluttered one at that, had notified the police a bunch of old crap had gone missing while the doors and windows were all barred and locked.

He then glanced at his assistant of the day, who was observing and listening attentively. Good.

“Why is Scotland Yard even bothering with such a mundane case? It’s not even your division,” Sherlock asked Lestrade.

“Miss Cavendish, the store’s owner, is the niece of a certain Duke who has a hand in politics… the higher ups want it solved so they thrust it on me and I’m doing the same to you, and here we are. Keep in mind I won’t be getting a promotion anytime soon if I mess this up, so please try to be...civil. Please?”

Sherlock hummed in annoyance and started walking through the aisles, observing the walls and ceiling, knocking here and there occasionally. The burglars seemed to have gone through a whole lot of trouble to steal decrepit baubles.

“Lestrade!” he snapped. “I assume you have a list of what was stolen?”

The inspector nodded and ripped a leaf out of his pocketbook that he handed to him without hesitation. Apparently, he was fully expecting him to solve the case.

 

Tiara - jewels, precious metals,  _ boring. _

Case of rings and necklaces,  _ boring. _

Old coin collections, crested silverware, antique pocket watches…  _ boring, boring, boring. _

 

“Is this all?” he asked Lestrade.

The inspector raised an eyebrow, looked to the list and then back at him.

“You know that’s an estimated thirty thousand quids, right?”

“Yes, and I also know they won’t be able to pawn it off for that price and that whoever did this went through too much trouble for so little reward, so I’ll repeat my question: is this all?”

“You better ask the lady. This is all she gave us,” Lestrade said, waving in the direction of a young woman with a long braid of hair and hippy skirts.

Sherlock strode towards his target with Lestrade in tow, motioning for Hermione to follow him.

“Miss Cavendish, what’s not on this list and why did you not include it?”

The woman sputtered for a bit, out of sheer shock at being confronted so bluntly.

“Wh-, no. That’s all there is, I swear,” she said with wide-eyes.

“She’s telling the truth,” Sherlock declared. “That doesn’t make any sense. Are you sure?” he asked the woman again.

“Well, I…” Miss Cavendish faltered and looked around at the cluttered shop. “I’m not the most organized of people, but those items are the only ones worth stealing, really.”

“Maybe you could walk around?” Hermione said from beside him. “You might notice something else missing.”

Sherlock nodded. It was a good idea if the woman was capable of directing her few brain cells to this particular task, which he seriously doubted. He went over to the rear of the shop where a door with a small brass plate stood ajar. It was the office and was, of course, just as disorganized as the shop: papers, accounting and inventory books, bills, deliveries and enquiries… there was no order whatsoever, everything was lying in an enormous jumbled pile, like a papery road-kill left in the gutter to rot.

“Bloody hell!” Hermione exclaimed as she followed him in.

“Aren’t you following Cavendish on the mission you gave her?” he asked as he looked around the room.

“No, I just wanted her out of the way. I doubt she’d find her own shadow if she put her mind to it.”

Sherlock snorted, finding himself surprised someone other than John had managed to coax that sound out of him. It was rather undignified.

“So what are you looking for in here?” she asked while he waded through the cabinets and shelves.

“Ah. Here,” Sherlock finally said pointing to a shelf with a variety of objects on it.

Hermione approached and had to stretch on her toes to see the shelf in question. She was even smaller than his usual assistant.

“Oh, I see. Something was recently removed,” she said, pointing at a square spot free of dust near the edge.

“Very good. You might make a passable John yet.”

She rolled her eyes before the corner of her lips quirked up.

“Do you think she’ll even remember what was there?”

“Dear God, woman. Are you trying to ruin my fun?"

But, as it turned out, she did remember what had been taken.

"It was just a small wooden puzzle box, you know, a brain teaser? It's not that valuable but I liked the design on the top so I kept it in my office. But why would they steal that? It’s not worth much."

Sherlock wanted to make a scathing retort to such an inane question but knew John generally scolded him at this point, so he reined himself in, albeit with great difficulty, and continued.

"More importantly, why was that one in particular stolen while the other two you have on that same shelf are still there? I suppose you never bothered to open it, probably way above your mental capability, and it's quite alarming that an 'antiquarian' such as yourself doesn't know these puzzle boxes were often used to hide sensible information or valuable objects, and that it thus must have been the burglar's only and real target. You'll probably find the rest of your wares stashed in a dumpster in one of the alleys nearby,” he finished with a flourish before muttering under his breath: “Where they belong."

Lestrade motioned two of his men to make the rounds of the dumpsters while Sherlock took a deep breath and ploughed on.

"However, your security is top notch for such a small establishment, no doubt your dear uncle's doing because it can't possibly be yours. So we are left with just the how. How did they enter and leave unnoticed and without a trace? I must be missing something obvious," he muttered, walking off and disappearing in the cluttered aisles. He must have gone round twice when he noticed Hermione staring up at a tall angle cabinet made of dark wood.

"I thought you had more taste than that," he told her, snapping her out of her reverie.

She chuckled nervously, he could see her pulse beating fast just above the collar of her jumper.

"Don't worry, I don't intend to inflict it to your sight if you're still bent on spying on me. It just reminds me of a… story I read, when I was younger."

Sherlock was not interested in some childish story, but the way she had stumbled on the word made him curious."

"Pray tell."

"It's silly, really. It's about vanishing cabinets and they look just like this," she said gesturing at the dark monstrosity looming over them. "They go by two and you can enter through one cabinet and leave out through the other, whatever the distance. Well, you can imagine all the trouble you could get into with one of those."

Sherlock nodded but decided then and there she was the worst storyteller ever. Even worse than John.

"So it is similar to a magician trunk with a false bottom that opens into a trapdoor to make your assistant seemingly disappear..." Sherlock trailed off as the two stared at each other. "Surely not," he said, paused, then wrenched the cabinet door open.

Everything seemed normal at first glance. Solid dark panelling all around but Sherlock noticed a smudge of mud on the bottom corner and grinned. He rapped his knuckles on the bottom panel, a hollow echo sounding back at him.

"Lestrade!" he hollered as he pulled a dulled sword from the clutter nearby to wrench the bottom panel off.

It came off easily and he peered into the darkness.

"Here," Lestrade said as he arrived, handing him a torch he had snatched himself from one of the uniformed officers.

He shone it down the hole but it was narrow and didn't go far before there was a bend in the tunnel.

"I won't fit," Sherlock muttered, looking at the various officers present.

Half of them were disgustingly overweight, a contradiction in their line of work. Lestrade was even taller than him and would be hard pressed to wiggle his way through.

"What did they send through there? A miniature ninja?" Lestrade commented.

"Where's Donovan?" Sherlock asked, irritated.

"Called in sick." Lestrade said. "I could call in one of our other female agents."

"Too long" Sherlock grumbled. 

Did Lestrade really expect him to hang around all day?

"I can go," Hermione offered. "Can't I?"

"Well..." Lestrade hesitated.

"No," Sherlock said, surprising everyone. He glared at them. "I don't know what's down there. I can't put you in danger," he said with finality. 

Lestrade gawked at him. It was annoying. It's not as if he always put everyone around him in danger all the time. Well... Not on purpose, anyway. He was about to have him get Anderson, who was the skinniest available person around despite his height, but before he could react, Hermione had snatched the torch out of his hand and  _ jumped _ down the hole.

"Are you out of your mind!?" he bellowed down the hole and received an echoing giggle in return. "John is going to kill me," he muttered.

"Jean?" Lestrade called down the hole.

"It's okay, there’s a very short tunnel and then they knocked down a wall... Eeew!"

"What?" Lestrade and Sherlock asked at the same time, both kneeling at the cabinet's entrance with their heads in.

"Sewers!" Her voice echoed back, coming from further away than he was comfortable with, but the light from her lamp soon returned and she raised her arms up as far as possible, wriggling her hands impatiently. Sherlock and Lestrade each grabbed one so they could pull her up and out.

She was covered in mud but grinning like a lunatic.

"Sewers!" She repeated. "Don't know what else I was expecting, really. Come on, I'll show you which way you can recover the trail."

She led them out and towards the street on the other side of the block before they found a manhole they could open.

"You don't mind going down again?" Lestrade asked her.

"She jumped down a muddy hole into the unknown, Lestrade. Do you really think she minds?" Sherlock snapped.

"But it's the sewers," Lestrade insisted.

"I don't mind. You get used to the smell after a while, and the rats are too well fed around here to bother you.”

"Rats?" Lestrade squeaked.

Sherlock and Hermione shared an amused look and they all went down in a single file. Hermione soon lead them back to where a wall had been eviscerated: mud, bricks and debris lying at its feet. 

Sherlock took over and showed them the telltale signs that pointed towards the direction they had taken. Because it turned out to be a team of burglars with two very distinct set of footsteps: one small and light, the other much larger and heavier.

"Sherlock, shouldn't we bring back-up?" Lestrade asked, peering into the darkness ahead of them.

"No," the consulting detective sighed. "With the racket your men made upstairs for God knows how long before you thought of calling me in, they’re long gone. Besides each of us is armed and perfectly able to defend himself.”

“We are?” Lestrade asked with a raised eyebrow but his disbelief was clearly directed at the small woman between them. Never mind that Sherlock never carried a gun himself.

  
  
  
  



	8. Worse Date Ever

Hermione shuffled on the spot, feeling cornered by the two tall men looming over her, and very aware of how the both of them were staring down at her expectantly. She knew the longer she took to answer, the less convincing it would sound.

“I don’t have a gun,” she said, finally looking Lestrade in the eyes because she knew the policeman would not like having civilians walking around armed and without a permit. “I wouldn’t know how to shoot one even if I did.”

It was much easier to lie when it was not actually a lie, so she did not even blush.

“Good,” Lestrade said with a nod of his head. “But stay behind me, okay? Just in case there’s trouble ahead. You too, Sherlock.”

Hermione complied and switched places with the man. That’s when she noticed Sherlock Holmes staring at her... no, at her side, just where she kept her wand in her jeans, under her jumper.

_ Oh, bugger, _ she thought. Holmes knew she was hiding something there, but he obviously didn’t know what, although he could now rule out any kind of gun since he always knew when people lied. She’d bet a galleon he had said they were all armed on purpose, confronting her to get a piece of the truth. Hermione risked a glance at her side when Lestrade lead them further down the sewers but she couldn’t see anything amiss, her wand being slender and her jumper rather loose. Damn the man, but he  _ was _ good as a detective, she had to give him that much. She just wished he wasn’t so damn annoying and nosy.

"Daylight," Lestrade said pointing to their left.

"Obviously," Sherlock said and a few minutes later, they were out of the pungent underground and taking in big lungfuls of fresh air in a small parking lot behind a coffee shop.

Sherlock walked over to the dumpster and fished out a heavy black bag that clinked and jingled merrily with the sound of coins and metal.

"Brilliant!" Hermione cheered with a half clap of her hands. It was just as he’d said. "Although, we're stills missing the puzzle box, the burglars and the one who hired them,” she finished, deflating a little.

"Maybe they're the same person?" Lestrade pointed out. 

Hermione snorted before answering.

"I highly doubt it. They had a good plan, stealing a bunch of junk to hide their real target which turns out to be a rare item that was used to hide information, which, in turn, supposes some kind of power-play is afoot, but despite all that, the burglars were pretty stupid themselves in the execution so they couldn’t have pulled it off without outside help: they had a mastermind if you will."

"Sound reasoning," Sherlock said approvingly, which made her smile despite herself. It was like being praised by a professor and she still couldn’t help being a teacher’s pet.

"What? How is that sound reasoning? Where is your proof?" Lestrade asked her before turning on Holmes. "Sherlock, is she a Holmes? Is she your sister? Is that why you won't tell me her last name?"

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade,” he answered dismissively.

"She even kind of looks like you with that hair,” the DI added, scrunching up his nose. “You're trying to pull one over on me, aren't you?"

She and Holmes stared at each other’s hair, both dark and curly, but really, that’s all they had in common.

"I can assure you I am in no way related to Mister Holmes, Detective Inspector Lestrade, or I might have joined a circus as soon as I learned to walk just to get away from him."

"Okay," he said but didn’t sound one bit convinced, "Then explain how you get to a third party commandeering this burglary."

"Dust," she said, but seeing the Yarder’s puzzled expression, she elaborated. "A perfect plan with a diversion so we wouldn't know what was really of interest to them and the oafs leave a perfect imprint in the dust of what they stole? It would have taken them a minute to wipe the trace off or put something on top to cover it, but it never even crossed their minds. Ergo, idiots. The rest was perfectly executed, since it was really by luck we found the tunnel - yes it was -” she insisted when Sherlock was about to protest. “So I imagine they were minutely briefed of every eventuality. Well, almost every eventuality. Dust: it's such a negligible tiny little thing, isn't it?"

"Yeah, definitely a Holmes," Lestrade grumbled, snatching the black bag from Sherlock’s hands and calling a team to come by and sweep the neighbourhood.

“So?” she asked Holmes when curiosity finally gnawed at her. “How do you find the culprits from here?”

“We could let the police do their work: collect fingerprints, go door to door for witnesses, look up the CCTV…”

“But you won’t do that,” she deduced from his bored expression.

“No. My way is better, and generally faster,” he announced, walking back to the antiquarian’s via the roads this time. Thankfully.

He went straight for the office, Hermione struggling to keep up with his long strides, two of her steps to match one of his. She didn’t know why she was still tagging along, but she hadn’t had this much fun in a very, very long time. It was like one of the adventures she’d had at Hogwarts when she was more carefree. Holmes was tugging at one of the heavy ledgers back in the antiquarian’s office not caring one whit when most of the pile tumbled down all the way to the ground in a cloud of dust.

“Here, look at this entry,” he said, pointing at a line after a few minutes of perusing the ledger.

 

**Puzzle Box - 05/10/11 - Barlow Estate (deceased)**

 

“Is that where it came from?” she asked.

“Undoubtedly. It’s quite a big place, old family. The old Barlow was in politics I think, in something or other. I’m under the impression that Miss Cavendish’s uncle uses his contacts to help his dear niece with her… business, if you can even call it that.” 

Hermione nodded at his train of thought. That would certainly explain how she came across such a sought-after object.

“Do you think a relative of the Barlow’s ordered the burglary?”

“No, or it would have been done much sooner. They would have known where the puzzle box had disappeared off to.”

“Well, that’s not very helpful then,” she said crossing her arms.

“Unless you know Barlow had an ongoing feud with another family.”

“What? Like the Montagues and Capulets.”

Holmes blinked at her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The Montagues and Capulets,” another blink. “Romeo and Juliet? Shakespeare? No?”

“Irrelevant,” the detective decided. “Focus, John.”

“I’m Hermione,” she said, wondering just how crazy this man actually was, and if she should be worried. “Or Jean, at the moment, I suppose.”

Holmes made a clucking sound as if annoyed by the interruption when she was the one who had more grounds to be irritated, and he continued.

“The feud between the Barlows and the Coopers: it was in the papers. I thought the death of Barlow senior would make an interesting case but Mycroft wouldn’t let me investigate it.”

“Who’s Mycroft?” Hermione asked, confused and half-expecting to be ignored again.

“My brother. If you see him, run the other way,” Holmes paused while Hermione contemplated what his brother might be like given this particular specimen when he went on, his voice a little off. “He had a message for you…”

Hermione froze. How could a muggle she’d never met have a message for her? She waited for the detective to continue, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Can’t have been very important, I seem to have deleted it,” he finished as he stared at her.

“You… what?” Yes, this man was definitely bonkers.

“We should visit the Coopers. Let’s go, John,” he said and he must have been doing it on purpose this time.

“Hermione,” she grumbled, but followed him nonetheless, taking a cab he appeared to have summoned out of thin air.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

The Coopers were not very forthcoming. No surprise there. Holmes arrived unannounced, barging through their door once it had cracked open and demanding answers to nonsensical questions as he trailed his long-fingered hands on the spines of the books in the shelves, shuffled the knick-knacks on the tables, peered out of the windows, making her, and no doubt their host, a certain Howard Cooper, more than a little dizzy. They left when the man finally threatened to call the police.

“Well, that was interesting and more informative than I had hoped,” the detective concluded as they walked across the street to a stuffy tea-shop with awful flower-patterned curtains that reminded her of Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop in Hogsmeade.

“Really?” Hermione asked. “I’m just glad he didn’t have us arrested.”

Holmes sighed and she could feel disappointment radiating from every pore of his body. They took a small table in the window, right across from the Cooper residence and Sherlock ordered tea for the both of them.

“Spying again?” Hermione asked with a half-smile. 

“Surveillance,” he corrected. “If you used your eyes as they were meant to be used, you would no doubt have noticed the rather muddy residual footprints on the Cooper’s threshold. A mud very similar to that still clinging to your jumper, by the way. Maybe you should take it off.”

“You want me to take off my jumper?” she asked, knowing that would expose her wand which was exactly what the detective wanted, so she pretended to misunderstand. “That’s got to be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

Holmes chose not to answer and stared across the street as they savoured their bone warming earl-grey pot of tea.

“So we’re certain Cooper is the one who commandeered the burglary. The puzzle box must contain information Barlow had that can be used against his arch-enemy. Cooper  _ was _ rather lucky Barlow died before he could use it against him,” Holmes commented.

“How did you know Barlow’s death was suspicious if you had only read about their feud in the newspapers?” 

His answer might just help her decide if Sherlock Holmes was a lucky nutjob or a veritable genius, she decided.

“He was found dead in his garden, supposedly succumbed to a bee sting. Ludicrous for so many reasons, I can’t imagine why they even classified the case as accidental.”

“Why? Wasn’t he allergic to bees?”

“Of course he was, but he also suffered from hay fever and who in their right minds goes for a leisurely stroll in their blooming garden when pollen release it at its peak, especially when you’re also allergic to bees. They might as well have classified the death as a suicide if they wanted to follow their flawed logic to the end. The stupidity. You might as well lie down in the street and wait to be run over.”

Hermione nodded, it made sense, but it was circumstantial, at best.

“That’s not all, is it?”

“No, indeed. Barlow, from what I could see from the crime scene photos I… borrowed, had been wearing quite a bespoke evening suit and was awaited at an official reception of some kind. You just don’t go hiking in your damp garden in your best suit before such an event. Oh, and one of his cufflinks was undone,” Sherlock finished, nodding once before he diverted his attention back to the building opposite.

_ One of his cufflinks was undone _ .  _ How exactly is this relevant? _ she wondered before catching Holmes staring at her in the window’s reflection. He was testing her. _ Okay, I can do this. _

She had a hard time imagining how it was important, having never worn cufflinks herself but finally came up with an answer that might satisfy the detective.

“His cufflink was undone because he had been manhandled, roughed up just a little since the rest of him was, I suppose, impeccable and it wouldn’t just come undone from falling flat on his face or even fighting off a bee. That would fit in the staged accident scenario, but I imagine that arm was trapped beneath him, explaining why his supposed killer failed to fix it?”

“Good enough,” Holmes commented, before ignoring her again while he looked through the window.

“What are you hiding under your jumper?” he asked suddenly, after he had been silent so long she hadn’t expected him to talk again.

Before she could answer that ‘it really was none of his business, a loud feminine,  _ sexual _ sigh sounded between them. Hermione’s eyes widened as she looked around but there was no one else nearby.

“I swear that wasn’t me,” she said, feeling a blush rising high on her cheeks.

“Of course not,” Holmes answered, rummaging in his pockets and taking out his phone.

He read a text message and put it back in his pocket without responding.

“ _ That’s _ your ringtone?” she asked, bewildered.

“Only for certain texts,” he answered.

Hermione hadn’t figured the man to be some womanizer but maybe she had misread him all along.

“From your girlfriend?” she asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” and that was the end to that discussion.

Holmes suddenly shot up to his feet, startling her out of her chair too, and he ran out the door. Hermione fumbled for her wallet and threw a bank note hurriedly on the table before trying to catch up with him and his bloody long legs. When she did reach him, he already had a big man lying flat on his face in front of him and who looked to be out cold. However, a small woman with the built of a gymnast was holding a gun pointed at him with trembling hands. It didn’t take Hermione long to understand this was the team of burglars they had been looking for, but she was surprised they were actually armed.

“I’ll shoot you,” the woman warned, her voice hitching. “That bastard tried to get rid of us, but we got him. We got him good. I’ll shoot you too! I’ll shoot you dead!”

Her gun was wavering dangerously, pointing anywhere from Holmes’ head to his feet. It seemed the detective, for once, had miscalculated and gotten the least dangerous one out of the way first. Hermione froze, not sure what to do, the woman had not seen her approaching behind her so she could probably disarm her, but should she use her wand?

BANG!

Hermione let out a startled cry, but Holmes was still standing, apparently unharmed, so Hermione pounced, completely forgetting about her wand, running forward and kicking the armed woman in the back while she was still trying to steady her weapon for another shot.

It was as effective as anything. The small woman fell forward, her gun sliding from her hands and across the ground towards Holmes. Hermione then sat on her back. She wasn’t big, but she was still heavier than the willowy woman beneath her and it pinned her down quite effectively to the ground where she seethed and flailed her limbs in fury while Hermione simply ignored her. She’d tire herself out soon enough.

“It’s not very smart to just run off like that on your own,” she commented when Holmes approached.

“You’re late,” he shot back.

“You forgot to pay the tab,” she pointed out. “This is the worst date ever.”

She grinned at the look of utter horror on the man’s face, which made her doubt once more he had a girlfriend after all. Sherlock never thanked her for her help, she noted, but that was rather in character for him. High-functioning sociopath indeed.

  
  
  
  
  



	9. The Postcard Collection

John knocked on Hermione’s door, not sure if she would even open it, or if she would open it just to have the pleasure of slamming it back in his face. However, he did hear all four bolts sliding back and her head poking out the side of the door.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, and John blushed at her apparent disappointment. “Thank God,” she added and he suddenly felt much better. “Come in, come in.”

She closed the door again with all sets of bolts when he was in and he finally noticed she was wearing only a towel and that her hair was dripping wet.

“Sorry, I’d just gotten out of the shower,” she explained unnecessarily. “I thought it might be the other lunatic again since he threatened to pick my locks to get in if I didn’t answer. He seemed pretty serious about it, too.”

John told her picking locks was a hobby of his while trying his damndest to look anywhere but at her. He was thankful she preferred long fluffy towels and excused herself to get dressed. But he was surprised to note she was back in no time, given the women he’d known usually needed a half hour at least to get ready.

“Sorry about that, but after spending half the day in the sewers, believe me, a shower was in order. Tea?” she offered but was already in her kitchen rattling what sounded like saucers and plates before he could answer. “I guess you came over because Mister Holmes invited me along today on his case?” she asked once she had returned with tea and...Oh! Strawberry jam sponge cake, his favourite.

“From what I understand, it was more like he blackmailed you into going with him,” John said, still angry at the information he had gotten throughout the day while he was at the clinic. Not only from Sherlock, but Greg too, who, for some reason, was convinced she was Sherlock’s sister and that her name was Jean, and yes, even one snarky text from Anderson that he just ignored because he never had anything nice to say anyway. He didn’t even know how he’d gotten a hold of his number.

“At first, yes,” she admitted. “But then, I just sort of…”

“Got pulled in?” John finished knowingly for her, and she nodded.

“It’s fascinating, really. Watching him find the most innocuous pieces of the puzzle and putting them all back together. It almost looks easy seeing him in action, but I was just floundering around like some idiot three steps behind, trying to catch up with his logic. And him too. He has insanely long legs.”

John chuckled. If he had a hard time following Sherlock around, he couldn’t imagine how this tiny slip of a woman did it without literally having to run behind him. Not to mention when they were actually running after the bad guys… John felt anger bubble up again. He was  _ so mad _ at Sherlock for putting Hermione in danger when she had had enough of that to last her for a lifetime.

“Sherlock… he shouldn’t have brought you along. He’s a danger-magnet.”

“To be fair, it was only a robbery at first, and it wasn’t  _ that _ dangerous,” she told him.

“He was shot!” John said, a bit more forcefully than he intended. “So I’m pretty sure guns were involved at some point.”

“Yes,  _ he  _ was shot, and not even that since it missed him by a mile. I, on the other hand, was perfectly fine.”

And it was true, she did seem fine, physically, but also mentally which conflicted with the violent past he knew her to have. Shouldn’t she be skittish around guns, loud noises and violence?

“Are you?” he asked, catching her gaze.

“Well, I am a healer, so I should know,” she said with a chuckle.

John looked at her strangely, not sure he had heard her right. Healer? Was that some kind of new age, hobo fake medicine man? He hadn’t figured her to be some kind of medical con. He felt almost insulted for his own profession.

“A...What?” he asked.

“Erm, nothing. Don’t worry about it. As I said, I’m fine,” she rattled off hurriedly and there was an awkward silence while they both sipped their tea.

“He must have missed you today, you know,” she said softly. “Holmes. He kept calling me John.”

“I hope you didn’t feel insulted,” he joked feebly.

“On the contrary. I was more annoyed that he kept doing it on purpose once I pointed it out. I think he was trying to make me angry for some reason.”

John shrugged.

“He likes testing people, pushing their limits. Don’t take it personally,” John told her, remembering how Sherlock had done the same to him the first day they’d met and how that ended with him not needing a cane to walk around anymore. “That’s just what he does. But I’m almost certain he actually enjoyed your company. He even said you weren’t as stupid as everyone else and believe me, that’s high praise coming from him. And you did save his life, he won’t forget that.”

“I just wish-” she said but was interrupted by a ringtone.

John wasn’t familiar with it but checked his phone because he had been convinced she didn’t own one herself. However, she jumped out of the couch and yanked a drawer open, the annoying ringtone becoming much louder.

“Harry?” she asked with a trembling voice.

A pause while Hermione listened to the person at the other end of the line. Harry, that had been the name of her friend with the green eyes who had come over to 221B to give them a piece of his mind for spying on Hermione.

“Where?” she asked next, her whole body tense while her voice wavered a little.

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have gone out,” she answered next. “I’ll… I’ll leave for a while, make a diversion far away from here.”

She hung up and put the phone back in the drawer, shutting it quickly. She held her head in her hands for a minute, but he could see her whole frame shaking and her breathing was quite erratic. John approached her as he would a wounded animal, his movements very slow and deliberate. Even from the little he had heard, and how she’d reacted, he understood well enough that her parents’ killer mist have picked up her trail.

“You’re leaving,” he concluded, his hand hovering on her back but not sure whether she would accept his comfort or not.

She turned towards him and buried her head under his chin. His arms wound around her of their own accord and he hugged her tightly. Sometimes, even he wished someone would do that much for him, so maybe she needed it right now. Her grip tightened, so it was probably alright, however she wasn’t crying like he had expected, she wasn’t scared out of her wits that a killer was coming after her, she was just… defeated, shoulders slumped, head bowed, resigned. Then, she breathed in deeply and tried to smile bravely up at him.

“I am. I have to go away for a while and I have a feeling you know why,” she told him, that fake smile still plastered across her face.

John nodded.

“Sherlock… he has his ways.”

Their impromptu hug broke when she inclined her head in acknowledgement and wiggled out of his arms. He could only witness her frantic run around her flat after that, watching as she gathered stuff in a tiny beaded bag that he was sure shouldn't be able to contain half the objects he had seen her stuff in it. Finally, her packing frenzy came to a stop and she walked over to him.

“Can I ask you a favour?” she asked, her voice wrought with uncertainty.

_ How could he not? Hell, he was even tempted to go with her. _

“Crookshanks. He’s not all that young anymore and we just settled down here. I really thought I would be safe for longer than this... Would you mind taking him in for a while? He goes about his own business really, just needs to be fed now that he’s too old to catch his own prey.”

“Yeah, sure, anything,” he heard himself answer, all the while knowing Sherlock was going to go spare when he returned to their shared flat with a sort-of-cat in tow.

But that knowledge was worth it when his arms were full of Hermione again, hugging him in thanks. Who would have guessed she was secretly a hugger? Sherlock would be disappointed to learn that. 

“Will I be able to contact you? I saw you had a phone. You know, just in case…”

“I’m not taking my phone,” she answered and that was a strange enough decision for someone on the run, but she must have her reasons. She was far from being stupid. “But I’ll write, if you want. Just so you know I’m still out there.”

John nodded and before he knew it, he was out on the street with a squirming ginger beast in his arms while Hermione was petting the life out of him, her small bag clutched in her hand. To say she travelled light was an understatement but maybe that meant she wouldn’t be gone for long.

“Thank you, John. It means a lot to me to know Crooks at least will be safe,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” he replied, just as the damned thing bit into his forearm and he yelped in pain.

Her answering chuckle was followed by the sweetest kiss he had ever had the pleasure to receive, Hermione leaning on her tip toes to brush his lips lightly with her own. Then, without another word, she was gone, walking at a brisk pace down the street and out of view. He stood there for a minute before a car backfiring startled him out of his dazed contemplation.

She was gone. Maybe he should have stopped her. Maybe he and Sherlock could have kept her safe. But he had an uneasy feeling about this, like he was an outsider and shouldn’t try to get in the middle of it even if he really wanted to. His instinct had never failed him before, it’s what had kept him alive in Afghanistan. Sometimes the best thing to do was just to wait and see. And cat-sit. 

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

The first postcard John received was from Scotland, a mere week after her departure and he couldn’t help but think that was a very strange place indeed to hide. She was schooled there, she’d told them, but maybe she had decided to hide in plain sight.

 

_ Dear John, _

_ I’m well. I lured him away from London and stopped at some friend’s place to assess the situation. I might be running for a while. Give my love to Crooks and tell him not to eat any of Holmes’ experiments. I’ve seen the inside of that fridge. _

_ Take care, H. _

 

Of course, John had barely finished reading the short note when Sherlock snatched it out of his hands and read it for himself, analyzing not only the message but the postcard itself, the stamp and the timestamps with the origin of the postal office. Once his analysis was over, he let out a long-suffering sigh and flipped the postcard back towards the table with one elegant twist of his wrist where it landed with unnerving precision right in John’s plate. He had to wonder if Sherlock had practiced throwing cards, knives or even bloody shurikens around before in one of his bouts of boredom.

“I showed her how clever I was,” Sherlock groused, stealing the buttered piece of toast John was about to bite into before settling onto the sofa with Crookshanks. “She really should have trusted me to keep her safe and arrest whoever is after her.”

“So that’s why you brought her along on a case?” John asked, finally putting the pieces together, seeing the bigger picture.

“Amongst other reasons, yes.”

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

The second postcard was brought to him by Mrs Hudson at their breakfast table three weeks later. The worry John had been accumulating after the first week without any news, and doing his best to hide ever since, suddenly evaporated. This one was from Bulgaria, of all places. 

_ Why Bulgaria? _

Hermione had the strangest places in mind when she was on the run. John flipped the postcard over:

 

_ Dear John, _

_ I know he’s close, but he can’t reach me here. As long as he doesn’t think I’m hiding in London, you and Crooks should be safe enough. I’ll stay here for a while longer, it’s a beautiful but harsh country, especially at this time of the year. It must be driving him nuts. Serves the bastard right. _

_ I miss home though. _

_ H. _

 

John did smile at that. At least she wasn't cowering somewhere in the dark. Before Sherlock could try snatching it out of his hands again, John handed it to him, ruining half the fun for his flatmate.

“What did she say she did as a living?” Sherlock asked, frowning at the postcard.

“Healer. Whatever that is,” John answered, still a bit perplexed about that tidbit of information she had let slip.

“She cares about you,” came Sherlock’s offhand comment, flipping the postcard once more so it landed lazily in the middle of his scones.

John looked over the message again.

“She cares about her cat,” he replied, just as said cat jumped on the table to rub its flat nose against the postcard.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock concluded and John hoped he was right.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

_ Dear John,  _

_ On my way back but keeping a low profile. It shouldn’t take long now. _

_ I hope you’ll let me make you dinner to thank you for all you’ve done for me. I'm a terrible cook, even Crooks won’t eat what I fry up, but it's the thought that counts, right? _

_ See you soon, H. _

 

John turned the postcard over in a hurry. He had been so desperate for news that he had read the short message first, needing to know she was safe. It was from France this time. Marseilles, to be precise, which was somewhere in the south if he remembered correctly. It showed a summer beach although December had sneaked up on them, but maybe she had thought a bit of sun, even just in picture, would cheer him up. It did, although he had an inkling that was more due to the news that she was safe and on her way back. And she wanted to make him dinner, which counted as a date, right? Maybe his budding feelings were not as one sided as he had first thought. 

With that thought in mind and the memory of the quick kiss she had given him before disappearing, he was in a merry mood for the rest of the day, which thoroughly annoyed Sherlock, especially because he didn’t even get to read the postcard this time, having secreted it away once he’d let Hermione’s strange pet sniff it.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

The next postcard arrived on the fifteenth of December, when frost had started decorating the glass panes of the windows, and it almost had him packing.

 

_ John, _

_ He’s close. I don’t know how he found me this time. I was so careful. I’m scared. I wish I could come home, but not now, it’s too risky. I have to backtrack. _

_ H. _

 

He flipped it over. Paris this time. She had been on her way back to London, getting closer with every card she sent him. But this one had been written hurriedly, her writing almost illegible with panic and fear. John paced, not knowing what to do, the postcard turning to mush in his fist. Sherlock snatched it out of his grasps just as John was about to turn around for the hundredth time so he smashed right into the taller man’s chest.

“Stupid girl,” Sherlock said, dropping the postcard on their coffee table. “She can’t run forever.”

“She’s scared,” John replied angrily.

“She’ll always be scared if she doesn’t stop him.”

“God, Sherlock. She’s not a soldier,” John sniped, knowing that he himself would not run but wait for the bastard to show up on his doorstep, shoot him right between the eyes and be done with the whole sorry affair.

“Uhm,” Sherlock hummed and let himself drop in his armchair, his fingers interlocking under his chin. “I think she may have been, which is why I don’t understand why she’s running.”

John snorted. Her? A soldier? Preposterous. She was too small and delicate for it.

_ “Well, I am a healer,” _ she had laughed. She could have been an army surgeon like himself. That didn’t require the same standard body-strength otherwise required. After all, John himself was quite short and lean compared to his other buddies in the army.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

For some unfathomable reason, Sherlock had decided they were throwing a small Christmas party this year and so, Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly had come over to drink and celebrate. Truth be told, it was a small gathering of people who had nowhere else to be, but it was already a crowd by Sherlock’s standards. However, well after everyone was accounted for, and quite cheery from the sherry, except for him who’d been called a grinch more than once by the others, the door opened once more, and Sherlock threw his arms up in the air.

“Hermione!” the detective greeted loudly, sounding genuinely pleased, but one could never be sure with Sherlock.

Before John even had the time to process the fact Hermione was really standing there in his doorway, her arms filled with wrapped packages and snowflakes still clinging to her long curls, Sherlock, to everyone’s astonishment, threw his arms around her. John hadn’t even known the man knew  _ how _ to hug.

“Holmes!” she protested loudly, pushing him away by smacking him repeatedly with one of the packages which seemed to be too squishy to do any real damage. “You can’t just give me a body-search without a warrant!”

Sherlock took a couple of steps back with his hands raised up in surrender.

“Can’t blame me for trying,” he said without apologizing.

“Blimey, Sherlock,” Lestrade exclaimed. “Are you still on about that supposed concealed weapon of hers? Can’t you just admit you were wrong for once?” 

The Scotland Yard inspector laughed, already well into his cups apparently, then abruptly stopped.

“Wait… What did you call her?”

Realizing he was just standing there, stupidly gawking at the woman he had hoped to see again for so many weeks, John shook himself out of his stupor and took a hesitant step forward, his eyes locking with Hermione’s. Then, in three long strides, he had her in his arms, hugging the living daylights out of her, because she was safe, finally safe after all this time. He held her tightly in his arms for a minute, burying his nose in her curls and enjoying her warmth, her smell, her softness and her icy nose and cheeks nuzzling against his warm neck. He tilted her head up, looking into her bright eyes, his thumb tracing her pouty lower lip, the one she always bit when she was hiding something. Her pupils dilated and her pulse beat a frantic pace under his fingers. John had learned a thing or two from Sherlock to know what that meant. With perfect synchronicity, he leaned down just as she pushed herself up on her toes and their lips met for a soft kiss that gradually deepened when his hands tangled in her wild curls, letting himself enjoy the feel and taste of her, wanting more when he heard the small pleased moan in the back of her throat. 

But he came back to his senses, eventually, upon hearing the cheers around them and Hermione’s face burning bright red against his own. Maybe they should wait for a bit more privacy. They’d waited this long already, after all.

 


	10. Half-truths

On Boxing day, Hermione was back in her flat on Baker Street. She had missed this place so much while she had been on the run. She had missed Crookshanks and her wacky neighbours too. All of them, even Holmes. She had finally found a place that felt like home, like she belonged, and even more so now that she was cosying up to John on her couch. It was so comfortable and… normal. She’d missed a bit of normalcy of late, and this felt good.

“How is Sherlock?” she asked softly.

She had seen the usually unflappable man return from wherever he had left for in a hurry the previous night, waiting up with an anxious John, and Sherlock had looked completely broken. Then a text from John’s phone had him sigh in defeat.

“Grieving. I have to look after him tonight,” he’d explained.

If there was one thing Hermione understood, it was grief, having lost more people than she could count on the fingers of her hands, so she decided to return to her flat with Crooks. There was no sense in invading the privacy of a man who needed time and space to process the loss of someone he had cared about. Hermione was actually a bit surprised there was such a person besides John.

“Of course,” she’d agreed. “I’m next door if you need anything.”

John had come by the next day, Sherlock having overcome his ‘danger night’ as John had called it, although Hermione wasn’t sure what that entailed but it did sound ominous.

“Still grieving,” was the answer to Hermione’s concern, an echo of last night. “I’ve never seen him like this, to be honest. It’s a bit scary. I don’t know what he might do, or not do.”

“Who was it?” she asked, not wanting to be nosy but it felt right to ask.

John chuckled humorlessly.

“The Woman. That’s all Sherlock ever calls her, but her name is Irene Adler. I’ve never seen Sherlock so fascinated by a woman before. I didn’t even know he was interested in women, but she had his attention all right, which is more than most anybody else can say. Sherlock must have been much more attached to her than I’d realized so I don’t know... I don’t know what to do.”

“He doesn’t open up easily to other people, does he?”

“Yeah, you can say that again. I’ll just keep a close eye on him, I guess. But how about you? You haven’t told me what happened to you yet. The last postcard I received was from Paris and it was a bit… terrifying, to be honest. And then you just pop out of nowhere on Christmas day. Not that I’m not glad you did. That was the best present ever.”

Hermione bit her lip. This would not be an easy discussion: there was so much she couldn’t say, and so much she wasn’t sure of herself, but she took a deep breath and began telling her tale as best she could with the restriction of the Statute of Secrecy, not looking at John but rather at his hand that he had entwined in hers, drawing comfort from the sight and everything it represented.

“There’s this...man. He holds me responsible for reducing his influence.”

“His influence?” John asked, puzzled.

John probably thought she was talking about a political leader or a mobster boss, but she only gave him a terse nod, and he seemed to accept she wouldn’t say anymore on the subject.

“So you could say he has his reasons to hate me, but he hated me even before that. Hated what I was, who I associated with and what I’d done, so he came after me, wanting revenge. And to get to me, he didn’t think twice about hurting the people close to me. I think he enjoyed it better that way too. Terrorizing me. It’s like he can smell it.”

She paused, lost in memories of her past, but John waited patiently for her to gather her wits. She squeezed his hand, glad he hadn’t tried to feed her well-meaning but empty words. He seemed to understand what it was, to fight, and lose, but get up again and again, so she continued with her story, fully expecting he might not want to have anything more to do with her once she’d finished.

“He… He killed my parents,” she whispered and he nodded, holding her closer against him. 

Apparently, this was not news to him. He and Sherlock had done their research well.

“My fiancé too,” she breathed out. “Ron. That monster, he’d found us, ambushed us, and Ron faced him, gaining time while I prepared our escape, but he didn’t make it out in time. _ I  _ barely got out in time.”

She rubbed her right arm absently, John’s eyes following the seemingly innocuous movement as if he knew what was hiding beneath her hand-knit jumper.

“It’s not your fault,” John said. 

She heaved a great shuddering breath. She’d never believe that, but didn’t say anything for a while, trying to grasp the thread of the story where she’d left off.

“That’s when I decided to live apart from society, from everyone. Harry is too stubborn to leave me completely alone, but he knows the man who’s after me will be too afraid to face him.”

“Harry? Your friend who stormed our flat?” John asked, quirking an eyebrow.

A crooked smile graced her lips at his doubtful expression. It was true Harry didn’t look like much if you didn’t know him, if you didn’t know he had faced and vanquished the most feared dark wizard of our time.

“But Harry has his own family to take care off, so I fled. Ran from country to country. Making the monster who was after me run so he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else. And he hasn’t, that I know of at least. I have no doubt he has killed and… wounded other people along the way. He’s the kind of monster that can’t go without killing. He enjoys it.”

“Why hasn’t anyone tried to stop him?” John asked. “The authorities-”

A miserable chuckle escaped her.

“The ‘authorities’ have tried to capture him for decades but he’s smart when it come to escaping them, has done so almost his whole life. And most everyone is too terrified of him, myself included.”

John was frowning as he mulled over her explanation.

“Why have I never heard of this man before? I mean, if he’s such a monster, has been wanted for so long, wouldn’t he be all over the news? Talked about at the Yard?”

Hermione sighed. This was why she could never truly belong to the muggle world. There was so much she wasn’t allowed to say, to share… Maybe one day, though, if things got serious with John. And she thought it might. It was still way too early to consider, of course, but John  _ had _ been waiting for her return for weeks. What man would do that if he didn’t have more than shallow feelings? But how would he react to learning she was a witch? He was taking the news that a murderer was after her better than she would ever have dared hope, but learning about magic was a whole other matter.

Or maybe she wouldn’t need to. Maybe she could just live as a muggle and forget about her past, about magic. Build something new, apart from the bitterness magic had brought her.

John seemed resigned to not get an answer, and she leaned in to kiss him. He was so cute when he looked both annoyed and accepting at the same time. She had no doubt that was a common occurrence when you lived with one Sherlock Holmes.

“Sometimes, he gets too close,” Hermione continued. “And I have to fight back, evade, retreat, flee again, hide somewhere else until he finds me again. I have to be smarter than him, stay ahead of the game. And sometimes, when I’m lucky, I have enough time to set up a trap.”

“A trap,” John repeated, pushing her away from him so he could look her in the eyes. “That’s what happened in France? You set up a trap?”

Hermione stared at him. His blue eyes twinkled and he looked oddly pleased. Proud?

“On the ferry across the pond. That beast was cocky enough to think he had me cornered there. Idiot. Contrary to him, I blend in and I had plenty of time to set the trap before he could even show his ugly mug.”

“And, it worked? You came back, so... it worked?” John prompted.

“I think so. I’d say there’s an 80% probability that he’s lying at the bottom of the ocean. Well, tethered to an anchor at the bottom of the English Channel, to be more precise, exactly halfway between France and England. I saw him go down, I didn’t see him come up. Not that it means much, he’s as slippery as an eel that one, but Harry is looking into it and promised me news either way.”

Hermione stopped, realizing she’d just confessed to having committed a murder in cold blood when she felt John’s body stiffen and his hand that had been drawing soothing patterns against her own suddenly stopped, but he wasn’t saying anything, so she continued.

“I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry I killed him.”

“Well, he wasn’t a very nice man,” John replied, his tone almost teasing and the tension, so palpable seconds before vanished as if she had imagined it. “I was actually more worried about you. Taking a life, even one as despicable as his, it can be difficult to deal with.”

Hermione shrugged. She’d had to get used to that idea very young in her life. Harry had killed for the  first time in his first year when he’d only been eleven. And during the war… well, you didn’t go on a battlefield using trip jinxes and boil hexes. She didn’t have a tally of the people she might have killed directly, or indirectly, because battlefields were by nature messy and chaotic, but she’d gotten used to the idea that she had probably killed a few people, and again, she didn’t feel sorry for it. Maybe she should, maybe she wasn’t normal.

“Is it bad if I’m fine with it?”

John chuckled.

“I’m probably not the best person to ask that question to.”

“What do you mean? You said you were an army doctor. Is it about the people you’ve killed or lost there, in the line of duty? Because-”

“No, no,” John shifted so they were now sitting face to face and he was wearing the most serious expression she’d seen on his kind face yet. “You read my blog.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the apparent non-sequitur.

“Yes?” she drawled, wondering where he was going with this.

“A Study in Pink? The cabbie?” John prodded.

“I remember. He got shot right before Sherlock… Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” John said flatly, his eyes fixed on her, bracing himself for her reaction.

“You?” Hermione wanted to confirm and John nodded.

“Well, he wasn’t a very nice man either, was he?” Hermione quipped and John’s face broke into a relieved grin.

“Did you really think I’d condemn you for that? He was a serial killer. He was about to kill Sherlock. I would have done the same in your place, without hesitation.” Hermione said hotly.

She couldn’t believe John had really thought she would blame him for his actions when she’d just confessed to the same deed. She wasn’t hypocritical enough to support such double-standards. And here they were, a couple of harmless looking killers in wooly jumpers, cuddling on the sofa while it snowed outside.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

It had become something of a fixture in Baker Street to see John cross the street from one building to the next with a squash-faced ginger cat in tow. Crookshanks had taken a liking to John during his stay with him and he sometimes sneaked out to follow him out in order to visit his other home. As far as she was concerned, Hermione took it as confirmation that John was a good person because her familiar rarely approved of anyone. In fact, he hadn’t even approved of Ron, but that might be because of the whole Scabbers debacle in their third year. Crookshanks was vindictive if nothing else. However, Hermione did not follow suit because she did not want to intrude while Sherlock was apparently still mourning. 

She saw him sometimes through the window, feeling like she was the one spying for once, and he did look less energetic than she had been accustomed to, but John had assured her that was actually quite common as he was just the same when he was bored. She also had a glimpse of him talking to a skull (a normal occurrence according to John), standing motionless for hours (normal), shooting the wall with a real gun (normal), and playing the violin which even she could tell was normal, except when he made it sound like a cat under the cruciatus curse. But sometimes, the melody was soul-crushingly beautiful, a haunting tune that made her feel melancholy for hours afterwards. It was worth it though and she found herself wishing he played more often.

Then one day, she watched as John followed a strange woman into the back of a sleek black car that was as suspicious as it was trying to be surreptitious. A bit like the one that had kidnapped Sherlock in a sheet. She wondered if she should be worried when she caught sight of Sherlock rushing out through the front door, catching a cab and obviously tailing John’s vehicle, but by that time, it was too late for her to do anything herself. Great. Now she was going to be worried until she got news from those two trouble-makers. It was like being at Hogwarts with Harry and Ron all over again. Keeping a constant vigil at the window, her eyes riveted on the street below and the flat opposite, Hermione hoped they would never find out or she’d never hear the end of it.

Lost in a book while she waited by her window, Hermione glanced up every now and then for a quick check up of the situation, when she was confronted by the sight of armed men in suits storming the place, right there in John’s living room. They looked like officials, like secret services or something of that ilk, not army and not street thugs but she knew you shouldn’t trust appearances and Sherlock had a lot of enemies from what John had told her. The boys weren’t there though.. There should only be Mrs Hudson in 221A, but surely they hadn’t hurt her? She was just a nice old lady.

_ Yeah, like Bathilda Bagshot _ ...

Without hesitation, Hermione ran out and crossed the street, then very slowly pushed open the front door, glad John had given her a key, and peered in. She would only go check on Mrs Hudson and leave again with her in tow. She saw no one in the hall, only the landlady’s abandoned cleaning products that stood forlornly in the middle of the landing. Then she heard a shrill wail coming from upstairs and her blood ran cold. They were hurting Mrs Hudson! Right, then, she knew a few bastards who would regret ever having been born. She hoped they’d enjoy spending their lives as cockroaches. Just as she was about to pull out her wand from under her jumper, Hermione heard the floorboards squeak behind her and she was clobbered over the side of the head without warning. Disoriented, she caught herself on the stairs’ ramp and noted that her attacker was one of the suits. Tall, muscled and pointing a gun at her face. Nothing she could do that wouldn’t end up very badly for her. He must have been the lookout... Of course there had been a lookout. She’d become too used to fighting one on one, but only an idiot didn’t check his back. John was going to be pissed.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice sounding as if it was in slow-motion so she wasn’t sure what part of her wasn’t working correctly: her ears or her mouth. 

She was dizzy too, and her vision was affected as well. To be honest, she was having a hard time just holding herself up and not passing out. The man smirked at her.

“We’ll be the ones asking questions, sweetheart,” he answered snidely. 

Definitely American judging by the accent. What the hell was going on? Then, without so much as a by your leave, he patted her down for a weapon and pulled out her wand, raising a mocking eyebrow as he probably only saw a piece of wood, or a toothpick given his size, but he threw it to the side nonetheless. Prudent, professional, ruthless. CIA? She didn’t know much of American law enforcement except for what she read in books and newspapers. After that, the mountain of a man humiliated her some more by simply picking her up like a sack of potatoes and throwing her over his shoulder, laughing when she tried to pummel and kick him, saying that it tickled. Merlin, but she hated being so tiny.


	11. Just a Sweet Old Lady

Mrs Hudson scowled at the men crowding around her. They might be well dressed, but they were severely lacking in both manners and wits. One of them even lacked a deodorant by the smell of him. And they were making such a mess! They hadn’t even wiped their feet clean and they were knocking over all of Sherlock’s organised piles of clutter. Looking for something, obviously, and she had a pretty good idea what it was, so she begged for a visit to the bathroom to retrieve it and hide it where they’d never think to look.

After that, she’d been forced down in a chair and she didn't have to fake her shaking to hold up the pretence that they scared the living daylights out of her, because they had done a bloody good job of roughing her up since they had barged in and snatched her from the lobby downstairs before dragging her up here like a hungry pack of hyenas. But on the whole, it had been rather tame compared to what she'd known at the hand of her husband and his work associates when she was younger. The poor, old, helpless lady act seemed to do the trick, as usual, and they soon lost interest in her altogether. 

"She knows nothing," their leader had snarled after back-handing her without results.

Her sobs grew in volume because she knew it would annoy them to no end, and she twisted her scarf ends together to more effectively hide the phone hidden in her bra. Not that they’d willingly go look there, but you couldn’t be too careful, and Sherlock would be  _ very _ upset if they took his phone away. It was the least she could do to save her walls from being shot at again.

A ruckus echoed from downstairs and she dearly hoped Sherlock or John had not gone and killed someone. Blood was such a hassle to clean up and she would be very crossed if she had to replace one of the carpets again.

She was disappointed when it was only the bulkier of the intruders, who looked like a bloody walking mountain to be honest, who reappeared with someone slung over his back. Definitely not one of the boys. Even John wasn't that small, or Sherlock that skinny. He tossed his burden carelessly to the ground and she recognized their neighbor, Hermione, just as the poor girl hit her head on the floorboards and went limp.

"Hermione! Oh, what have you monsters done to the poor girl?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, truly worried this time.

Hermione was a sweet girl, always so nice and polite. She’d even helped her carry her groceries a couple of times when they’d met at Tescos. And she made John so happy. Much happier than he'd been with any of the trollops he'd brought over. Even Sherlock approved of her, or, at least, he found her interesting and tolerable, which was as good an approval as Sherlock was going to give.

"Oh, well done, Whyatt," the leader snarled sarcastically. "How am I supposed to interrogate her now?"

Whyatt shrugged, unconcerned.

"She's just the neighbor. She won't know anymore than this old biddy."

The leader nudged Hermione's head upwards with his foot to have a better look at her, and Mrs Hudson exploded in a litany of insults. That was no way to treat an injured girl!

"So she is," the leader said. "If she dies, though, you're cleaning up the mess."

Whyatt rolled his eyes.

"It's only a bump," he protested pointing at Hermione's head, then frowned "Or two."

Mrs Hudson stared at these idiots incredulously, then decided to ignore them altogether in order to keep up her innocent act as well as a watchful eye on Hermione's breathing. She'd have to make a scene if her condition got worse, but so far she only seemed to have been knocked out: her breathing deep and regular, the constant frown of her eyebrows the only sign she was actually in pain. Poor girl. She didn't deserve to be dragged into Sherlock's antics, but she would probably have to get used to it if she wanted to continue seeing the good doctor, so she might as well get a taste of it, see if she could handle all the drama before she and John got too attached. God knows his other girlfriends didn't have the stomach for it.

It felt like hours had passed when Sherlock finally appeared, but it was probably only another half-hour or so. His eyes swiveled to everyone present, paused when he saw Hermione and frowned before he focused on her in the chair and the leader standing at her side. Sherlock was barely containing his rage this time but he ignored the intruders to approach her instead, just to make sure she was alright. Such a dear.

Of course she was alright, she wanted to say, but they weren’t out of the woods yet, so she held her tongue and let Sherlock sort everything out, which only took a couple of minutes, bless him.

The leader was now alone, unarmed and tied down to the very same chair that had held her captive, in some form of poetic justice that she found very satisfying. The man’s eyes were still red and watering from the cleaning product Sherlock had sprayed into them but Mrs Hudson itched to go downstairs to fetch her skillet and whack him over the head a couple of times nonetheless for what he’d done to her and Hermione. She had to make sure the poor girl would be alright first though.

“Why is she here?” Sherlock asked, kneeling next to Hermione as they checked her head wounds.

“Maybe she came for a cup of tea?” Mrs Hudson offered. “She hasn’t visited in a while.”

“I highly doubt it. She didn’t want to intrude after Christmas. No, she probably saw you were in trouble and came over to help.” Sherlock pulled her jumper up suddenly, scowled, and then pulled up her shirt too.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson protested loudly, slapping his hands away and pulling her clothes back down. “What do you think you’re doing? I said she had head injuries.”

“Just...uhm...checking,” he mumbled, not sounding nearly contrite enough, the little devil.

Then, John appeared, his eyes going wide at the scene.

“Jesus! What happened here?” he demanded as he too kneeled over Hermione’s still prone form and you could see he was in doctor mode now, checking her pulse, the open wound where she’d been hit with something, the bump at the back of her head from the fall…

He nodded to himself and lifted her in order to carry her over to the sofa. Apparently, she would be fine because he did not call an ambulance. He was in triage mode now and came over to check her wounds too..

“I’m fine, John. Honestly,” Mrs Hudson protested.

“If you’re sure,” he said tonelessly.

Uh oh. That wasn’t good. John could be quite scary when he was angry, and his silent anger was the worse. Right now, it looked like he could tear apart a grizzly bear with his bare hands. Sherlock spotted it too because he was there in a flash, standing in between John and the American.

“Stand aside, Sherlock,” he growled. “He deserves what’s coming to him.”

“Oh, I’m not denying that, John. But we should make it look like an accident. You know, for the police,” Sherlock said with a smirk as the two of them looked at the wide eyed American. He was visibly sweating now and trying to fight against his binds. A useless endeavour since it was Sherlock who had tied him up and he was inordinately good with knots. She’d know. She had found all her shoe laces tied into impossible knots one morning and had had to cut them off and replace them.

“Would you mind calling an ambulance, Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock asked sweetly when he and John each picked up one side of the chair and dragged their captive towards one of windows that gave onto the back alley. “Multiple traumas. A burglar who fell out of the window. No need to hurry.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson mumbled, watching the American’s struggles redouble futilely, before she turned away to make the call.

The man’s scream and subsequent crash on her bins seemed to rouse Hermione because she pushed herself up just at that moment.

“Mrs Hudson?” she asked. 

She sounded like Mrs Turner when she’d over indulged with the irish in her coffee. That couldn’t be good.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked this time, now getting up on two wobbly legs to join her.

“Me?” Mrs Hudson asked, hurrying over before she fell again. “Look at what they’ve done to you, you poor thing. You should sit down for a bit. The boys will be back soon, they were just taking out the trash.”

Hermione blinked at her owlishly, too slowly, and her eyes droopy. All right, maybe it was a bit early to joke. Her brain was probably as jumbled as scrambled eggs at the moment.

“Hermione!” John exclaimed when he saw her up and about. “You should lie down. You might have a  concussion.”

“Won’t be the first,” she replied, but her voice was getting stronger. “Where are those men gone?”

John looked sheepish, a fact that his girlfriend didn’t miss. Mrs Hudson cooed. Those too already looked like an old married couple, especially as they were now having a silent argument with just their eyes. One which Hermione seemed to have won because John finally confessed.

“Sherlock scared off the two goons but their leader… erm… fell out of a window.”

“Of course he did. I’ll be right back,” she answered mildly but with cold fury radiating from her.

Mrs Hudson and Sherlock glanced at each other. Hermione had looked and sounded remarkably like John just then. The steel and cold shining through her usually kind demeanour. They all watched her walk out resolutely, albeit at a slow pace, heard her go down the stair, then silence for a short while before they heard a muffled groan from outside and she reappeared with a satisfied smirk.

“Did you just-” Sherlock started.

“Kick his bollocks up his throat?” she chirped then looked at Mrs Hudson with a cheeky smile. “You can bet on it.”

The boys both winced in sympathy, even if they had just thrown the man out of a window themselves.

“Okay, I think I need an ice pack now. My head is killing me,” she added, pecking John on the cheek, then Mrs Hudson and then, with only a slight hesitation, Sherlock.

Sherlock looked stunned and not in a good way, but he had the decency to wait until the dear girl had left to rant.

“What was that about?”

“It’s called a kiss, Sherlock dear. Surely you’ve been kissed before?” Mrs Hudson mused.

Sherlock had a far off look as if he was really searching for a memory of a kiss and she felt sad for him. Maybe he wouldn’t be so aloof and socially inept if he had received more hugs and kisses as he grew up.

“I don’t know. I must have deleted it,” Sherlock decided. “But why?”

This time, John huffed in annoyance.

“I can’t believe you deleted kisses, you prick. It’s because you stopped the men who attacked her and Mrs Hudson. How can you not deduce something so obvious?”

“I lack data,  _ obviously _ ,” Sherlock deadpanned

“Have you deleted hugs, too?” John asked.

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock dismissed once more with a wave of his hand.

“Come here,” John grunted and pulled Sherlock into his arms, barely managing to hug him by forcefully wrapping his arms around his squirming friend.

Sherlock finally relented and stayed motionless, although he did not exactly return the hug, but it was still a beautiful sight. Mrs Hudson decided to give them some privacy and bustled off to try and fix some tea in what had once been a kitchen. When she returned with a tray of mismatched and chipped mugs filled with what she hoped was tea, and only tea, the boys were arguing again.

“Mrs Hudson, kindly explain to John he’s dating himself.”

She paused, running the words through her mind again because Sherlock seemed to think he was making sense. It only took her a couple of minute to figure out what he was on about though, but the good doctor had taken advantage of her silence to protest vehemently.

“Well, actually dear, I think you are,” she cut in. “You two are very similar, you know, and I’m not only talking about your strange fondness for ugly jumpers.”

“It’s winter!” John protested. “And they are  _ not _ ugly. Well, mine aren’t.”

That, at least, was true: Hermione’s jumpers were knit in the most garish colours imaginable and she usually had a sleeve shorter than the other. One of them was even decorated with otters of all the strange patterns to be had.

“That’s besides the point,” Sherlock interrupted before John could work himself into a snit again and he started rattling off his deductions. “She’s been a sort of soldier before, is showing signs of PTSD and old scars, carries a concealed weapon on her whenever she goes out, has some sort of medical background. She’s smarter than average, looks harmless on the outside, mostly because of said jumpers, but is ruthless, violent and doesn’t have qualms about it if it’s directed at someone who deserves it or if it's personal-”

“What? You have absolutely no proof whatsoever about any of that!” John exclaimed. “Well, except for that ruthless part, but other than that, you’re just guessing, Sherlock.”

“I don’t guess,” Sherlock sneered.

“Yes, you do. And I don’t carry my gun on me every time I go out.”

“Which only proves she’s actually smarter than you.”

Mrs Hudson saw this was going to escalate until one of them slammed a door. It was time for her to intervene again. These rowdy boys would be the death of her. She fished the phone out of her cleavage and handed it to Sherlock without a word, enjoying the doctor’s befuddled look, before taking another sip of tea. It was nice that she was still able to surprise someone, but she’d thought John would have caught on by now that she wasn’t just a sweet old lady.


	12. Night Time Visitor

“Not on babysitting duty tonight?” Hermione asked breathlessly against his mouth.

“Nope. I actually came to tell you about it, but I got a bit sidetracked.”

“Good,” she said and dragged him towards her bedroom.

Whether she was glad he’d gotten sidetracked or had his night free, John would probably never know because her lips were too busy raising goosebumps over every available surface of his skin, and he certainly wasn’t complaining. He really had come over bearing news. Keeping an eye on Sherlock while he was in mourning had not allowed him as much time with his girlfriend as he would have liked, but his mourning phase had ended with the revelation of The Woman's faked death, and today, he and Irene were flirting outrageously, with her strutting around their flat in Sherlock’s silk dressing gown and Sherlock showing off how very clever he was. Disturbing didn’t even begin to cover what he’d witnessed up to now, so John had fled to the other side of the street and into the welcoming arms of his girlfriend. They deserved some time together, away from the drama an undead dominatrix, brutish American secret agents and a genius detective on the brink of succumbing to his old demons brought about.

Just the two of them. And a bed. Finally.

“Stop thinking,” she chided.

“Yes, ma’am,” he teased because she had quite a bossy nature, which seemed to extend to the bedroom.

Her jumper landed on the floor with a strange thud, soon followed by his own and it was a bit sad to realize this was the most undressed they’d ever gotten up to now, so, in an effort not to spoil such progress, John got rid of his shirt too and laid back, enjoying her grin and lustful eyes as they roamed over his body. That is, until they stopped at the patch of scar tissue on his shoulder. The damn thing had a knack for stealing his thunder. Every. Fucking. Time. Her fingers lightly skimmed the surface, dancing over the raised skin, sliding over the smoother patches, sending shivers all the way down his spine and building the tension gathering in his middle.

“It's not healed,” she said with a frown as if it didn't make sense to her.

“It's as healed as it's ever going to be.”

Her fluttering fingers were replaced by soft lips, pressed gently against his shoulder which still tingled with sensation from her exploration, but she didn’t ask any more questions, just moved on with her exploration of the rest of him, which was fine by him. Oh yes, just fine.

Except…

John flipped her over.

“My turn,” he growled and helped her out of her shirt, throwing it over his shoulder before his excitement stuttered to a stop.

His mouth fell slightly open, his eyes had certainly gone as wide as they could, but he couldn’t care less that he was looking like a gobsmacked idiot right now because he was. His own fingers started mapping out the scars that littered the top half of her body. She even had a starburst pattern near her collarbone that almost matched his own, long scratches down her right forearm that looked like claw marks but if they were inflicted by an animal, it would have to be a very large animal, like a lion. And then there was her left upper arm: the soft inside part of her flesh had been literally carved with letters that made no sense to him: MUDBLOOD, but even so he could tell it wasn’t very nice. No one cut nice words into another person’s skin. His eyes drifted back up to meet Hermione’s who was observing him, waiting for his reaction. He had about a thousand questions, he was worried and he was furious, he wanted to hurt whoever had done this to her… but if anyone could understand how vulnerable she felt right now, it was him, so he mirrored her own earlier actions and kissed each of her scars in turn before putting them out of his mind and lathing the rest of her body with his attention. After that the rest of their clothes quickly went flying around the room.

 

John felt he could just lie there forever, boneless, sated and happy, with Hermione nestled against him in his arms waiting for their bodies and pulses to settle down. He could even get used to her hair tickling his nose or Crookshanks staring malevolently at him from the top of the wardrobe. John would bet his best jumper that it had been there all along, staring at them like a creepy peeping-tom. He’d probably have to get used to it, or maybe he could bribe him with bacon to stay out. That cat was probably the smartest animal he’d ever met, after all. His attention returned to its mistress when she sighed contentedly.

“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually,” he said.

She had the good grace not to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about.

“We will.”

“But not now?” he guessed, because most of his questions ended that way.

“Not now,” she confirmed with a kiss to his shoulder.

There was such a thing as being  _ too _ mysterious. Hell, even Mycroft hadn't managed to pull that level of cloak and dagger for as long as she had, and John had never even dated him. A shudder ran through John at the thought. But it was true: Hermione held onto her secrets like a dog to a bone. John had come to accept it, hoping she'd open up to him in time, but it was driving Sherlock up the wall, which explained why the number of experiments and cases had more than doubled over the last couple of weeks.

Hermione was an encrypted puzzle rolled into a mystery. It was like Christmas for Sherlock and if John didn’t know him better, he might have thought Sherlock had a crush on his girlfriend, but no, just the uncontrollable urge to unravel the enigma she posed until she made sense. John was almost grateful Irene Adler had shown up right then to distract his friend or his intense curiosity might have driven Hermione away. She was surprisingly accepting of Sherlock and the special bond he shared with him, more than any of his former girlfriends had been, but even she might draw the line at Sherlock breaking into her home and going through her sock drawer.

 

Hermione had fallen asleep soon after, clutching to him like a kid to a teddy bear. John didn’t mind, he liked this secret, clingy side to Hermione, but it appeared he’d taken up Crookshanks spot because when he realized he wasn’t going anywhere, he jumped on the bed and pointedly began kneading his stomach with dagger-sharp claws, all the while staring at him right in the eyes. But then, it suddenly started hissing and spitting.

“Hey, there’s no need for that,” John whispered, afraid they’d wake Hermione.

“Crooks?” she mumbled.

Her cat hissed at her too, but then looked towards the door and Hermione jumped out of bed.

“Get dressed!” she ordered, already pulling her jeans up.

“What’s going on?” John asked but got out of bed too and began hunting for his clothes while Crookshanks now growled low and paced in circles on the bed.

“It’s him,” she answered, then did a strange twist of her body that almost made her stumble. “Of course,” she added darkly.

“Him?” John repeated dumbly.

“Merlin, I’ve been so stupid. He got away! Of course he got away again! And now he's going to hurt you.”

John feared she was going into hysterics but she took a deep breath and pulled her shirt over her head. Then so many unbelievable things happened at once that he thought his head was going to explode. The bright ghost of a deer, with antlers and all, sauntered into her bedroom, which was bad enough, but then it  _ spoke. _

“Hermione! Illegal anti-apparition wards have been set up in your neighbourhood. Run for it!”

And it was followed by the ghost of a bunny, which of course spoke too. John decided he was dreaming. Had to be. Only logical explanation.

“Hermione! Your chimney has been illegally cut off from the network. Run! Be safe!”

John was seeing a pattern here and he half expected to see the twinkling ghost of an elephant join their little circus, but the two luminescent animals merely sauntered around one another in the air, nuzzled their noses, then disappeared into thin air.

“John!” Hermione snapped her fingers in front of his nose. “John, focus!”

The loud crash from the entrance did snap him out of his daze and he followed Hermione into the living room where she pointed a stick at the front door making it shine before her fridge, cooker and sofa slammed against it. John rubbed his eyes, but no, he wasn’t hallucinating. Another loud crash against the door sent plaster falling from the ceiling. Hermione grabbed his hand and threw the window open.

“You’re going to have to trust me,” she told him.

John opened his mouth but no sound came out, so he nodded instead.  Hermione pointed her stick across the street, sending his living room window flying open. Sherlock appeared soon after, looking at them in surprise and calling his name.

“I’m sending you over. Try not to move too much.”

And suddenly, he was hovering in the air. He jerked against the feeling of weightlessness and Hermione hissed her instructions again. 

_ Right, don’t move, your girlfriend is only making you float in the air like a soap bubble. _

John was suspended in the air mid street when he realized Hermione might not be able to follow the same way since she seemed to find it difficult enough doing it for him.

“What about you?” he shouted back at her.

“I’ll be fine!” she shouted back, then winced. “Don’t move!”

John felt Sherlock’s hands reach for him and John made an involuntary pirouette in the air trying to catch his hands. When they got a good grip, he was pulled inside and gravity immediately took hold of him again, making him crash to the floor. He sprung right back up and leaned out the window, ignoring whatever Sherlock was nattering on about. Hermione had climbed onto the roof with Crookshanks and there was a man, a huge, very hairy man standing where she’d been a minute ago.

“Hermione!” he called, his voice thick and gravelly, but so loud it echoed down the street. “I can smell you!” He jumped onto the roof in one inhuman leap. “At last, little mudblood, I’ll have my revenge.”

He lunged towards her but Hermione shot him with something, and then there was a light show going on up there that he couldn’t make any sense off.

“Are they fighting with fireworks or something?” Sherlock asked, bringing John out of his horrified, fascinated trance.

Why was he wasting time? He needed his gun. He needed to help Hermione.

“Did you call-”

“Yes,” Sherlock talked over him. “I called Lestrade, the Met, Mycroft and anyone else I could think of.”

John was back from his bedroom with his gun in hand in under a minute, which had to be a bloody record. There were still strange lights flashing from across the street, so Hermione was still fighting, or so he thought, but Sherlock urged him to hurry as he stood back from the window to leave him room. Hermione was being held in the air by one of her attackers huge hands while the other immobilized her weapon, and she was kicking and screaming like an angry kitten. It only made the monster choking her laugh maniacally like a good old fashioned villain from a fairy tale.

“Hey!” John shouted. “You ugly wanker!”

The laughter stopped abruptly and the man’s head swivelled slowly towards him. His face wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t exactly deformed but there was something about it that made shivers run down his spine. Then, he sniffed the air and his teeth glinted under the almost full moon.

“A muggle?” he turned back to Hermione, speaking right in her face. “Well, at least you’ve learned your place, little mudblood. Dirt belongs with dirt. Do you want to know what I’ll do to him when I’m finished with you?”

Hermione whimpered and tried to kick him feebly, but he merely laughed and held her at arm’s length again, which was just the cue John had been waiting for. He shot. He didn’t usually go for headshots, even less so at this angle, but seeing the dark hole in his temple seconds before he fell and slid off the roof was satisfying to the extreme. What he hadn’t accounted for was that he’d be dragging Hermione down with him, even dead. She managed to hang on to the gutter in a last ditch effort, but the final yank of their combined weight before the killer’s dead weight fell to the pavement broke the gutter’s hold to the building and Hermione found herself swinging outwards across the narrow street, coming almost within reach of their outstretched hands before the whole structure collapsed. She fell, fast, and John couldn’t tear his eyes away, even as she landed on the pavement beneath and… bounced back a few times as if she was on a trampoline before she was immobile again.

“I think someone has slipped me some drugs, John. I’ve been seeing impossible things all evening.”

“Yeah, me too,” John answered numbly, his eyes glued to the street below where men in red capes were running towards Hermione. 

_ What the hell was going on now? _

He sighed, and ran downstairs, Sherlock hot on his heels. John threw the front door open and realized the men in red weren’t a danger to Hermione. In fact, one of them was enthusiastically hugging her, and then another and it looked like they were queuing up for a chance to hug his girlfriend to death…

“Hey!” he protested and walked right at them.

“John!” Hermione squealed and threw herself at him. “Was that you? That was you, wasn’t it?”

John tried to shush her and she laughed.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ll be getting a bloody medal for getting rid of him. Scratch that. You got him with a muggle weapon, you’ll be getting an Order of Merlin just for the sheer irony of it.”

“Err…” John didn’t understand everything she was saying, just that she was very, very happy. Giddy, even. Drunk on freedom and relief. “I think you have a lot to explain.”

 


	13. Forget Me Not

Sherlock remained a few steps behind John, trying to be inconspicuous, which should have been easy given the strange people running about and the even stranger events that had just taken place: John flying through the air, Hermione fighting a hairy giant on the rooftop at almost full moon, the pair shooting fireworks at each other before she fell and bounced off the pavement. He still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t under the influence of some drug or other, so he followed John in a sort of a daze.

“Sherlock!”

Ah. Mycroft was here, so it was either a nightmare or a very bad trip. Sherlock stopped and watched as Hermione was being passed around the men in red and hugged enthusiastically before John intervened in true Alpha male fashion to reclaim his girlfriend.

“Yes?” he asked the maybe-real-Mycroft. 

He wasn’t going to bother being snarky if all of this was just a hallucination. But Mycroft grabbed his arm and wouldn’t let go, and it hurt which made everything real enough.

“For once in your life, Sherlock, listen to me: stay close and follow my lead.”

Mycroft sounded desperate enough that his mouth, which had been on autopilot and about to question his brother’s sanity, snapped shut again. A glance at Mycroft confirmed that he was actually afraid. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such an expression grace his features so he memorized it and, just for this once, obeyed his directives. He’d make fun of him later.

Mycroft didn’t let go of his arm and tugged him along towards John who was standing next to  Hermione as she talked to a very tall and muscular man in… a purple nightshirt? Only it went all the way to the ground, was made of thick material and had elaborate embroidery on its front and sleeves. A costume? But what was he disguised as? A tacky lampshade?

“Minister Shacklebolt?” Hermione was saying to whatever the man’s greeting had been, surprise in her voice. Mycroft stopped them just within earshot. “What are you doing here? I mean, not that you’re not allowed to be here, of course, just-”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” the man chuckled, a gold earring glinting as he glanced down at her. “I only had to verify it for myself. I’ll be announcing Greyback’s demise as soon as possible. Let everyone sleep easier before the full moon is upon us. Clean up will be starting now. I can’t say I’m pleased it happened in a muggle neighbourhood as dense as this one. It’s going to be hell paying for all that overtime.”

Hermione suddenly stepped in front of John as if she was trying to shield him.

“Sir, if I may, I have muggle friends who were caught up in the incident. I’d rather if they were not obliviated.”

The costumed minister glanced at John, still holding his gun out as if he’d forgotten about it, giving him an assessing look before holding out his hand.

“You have the magical world’s thanks for your deed, sir.”

John hesitated, probably stumbling over the words “magical world” just as Sherlock was, before putting his gun in his belt and shaking the man’s hand. Mycroft pulled him along once more, looking grimmer than ever.

“So you’ll keep the obliviators away?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“As much as I’d like to, Hermione, I’m afraid that’s not possible. There are procedures, of which you’ve broken many already and-”

“Minister Shacklebolt,” Mycroft cut in smoothly, offering the man a curt nod but not his hand.

“Mister Holmes,” the man greeted back.

Mycroft knew… he knew this man, he knew about Hermione… Mycroft had known all along about this magical world! About magic! Sherlock wanted very much to kick Mycroft in his stubby shin right then and only the tension running through his brother’s body, making him look like he was two seconds short of snapping, stopped Sherlock from succumbing to his urge. But he’d have hell to pay later, he promised himself.

“I didn’t realize you’d been informed yet,” the minister continued with a frown.

Sherlock read that as he’d really not wanted Mycroft to be informed at all.

“Yes, but unfortunately, my brother has somewhat witnessed this extraordinary event and I had to make sure your people did not use a liberal amount of your magic to alter his mind.”

Mycroft sounded almost accusing, clearly unhappy and he cut short the other man when he tried to protest.

“As the Muggle Consul to the Magical World, it is perfectly within my rights to protect my brother from your mind butchery, or shall I cite the MLEFM law, paragraph 122, section B, voted by the Wizengamot in-”

“No, no, that’s quite alright. But do inform your brother of the Statute of Secrecy and the consequences if he should not respect it.”

Mycroft gave a terse nod, then continued.

“Of course, John is exempt too.”

The minister followed Mycroft’s gaze to John and raised an eyebrow.

“Your brother as well?”

“No. Miss Granger’s fiancé. I doubt she’s had time to file the papers yet, but, given her status, I’m certain you could ignore the few days gap and avoid an unnecessary memory charm, uhm? I’m certain it would be much appreciated.”

“Yes!” Hermione chirped, cutting off John who’d opened his mouth to protest. “If you could, sir. I would have done it sooner, but with…” she waved a hand at the broken corpse of her attacker that lay further down the kerb and grimaced.

“Oh. Well in that case, of course,” the minister said, clearly taken aback. “Congratulations! I’ll just… I’ll make sure the obliviators leave you alone, then. I’ll be in touch.”

Hermione and Mycroft both let out relieved sighs, their bodies slouching slightly before their eyes met and they started giggling.  _ Mycroft _ was giggling. With Hermione. It might just be the end of the world.

“Mr Holmes,” she said, offering her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Mycroft, please. And likewise,” he added, giving her hand a baise-main rather than a shake, the poncy snob.

“Okay, what the hell just happened? What the bloody hell is going on here?” John snapped.

“Yes, my thoughts exactly,” Sherlock agreed.

He decided he could probably talk now if everyone else was devolving into madness.

“Not here,” Mycroft replied. “My car is just around the corner and I could do with a less crowded neighborhood.”

“Wait,” Sherlock said. “What about Mrs Hudson? What are they going to do to her?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft said. “She slept right through it somehow, so she’s safe. It’s only the witnesses that will have their memories erased or modified.”

“For real?” John asked. “They can do that? Wait,” he said and turned on Hermione, looking crossed. “Is that what you did to Sherlock that first day?”

“No, and before any of you get on my case, I don’t actually approve of their methods. I only locked the memory away. I’m not a butcher, more like a… banker. Here,” she added and poked her stick at Sherlock who went wide eyed, the memory of him seeing Hermione making objects fly through the air coming back to him as if it had never left.

“Oh,” he said then frowned again. “That wasn’t very nice either. Don’t mess with my mind palace again.”

They all climbed into Mycroft’s long dark car and he gave instructions for his home before bringing up the divide between them and his driver.

“Explain. Now,” John said angrily, scowling at Hermione who was now, for all intents and purposes, his fiancée.

Hermione shuffled in her seat, then took a deep breath and finally looked at them each in turn.

“I’m a witch.”

“A… witch?” John said incredulously.

“A witch,” she confirmed.

“She is,” Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock thought it made as much sense as anything else that had happened that night. He wanted the whole story and wished for once that John would stop interrupting.

“There is a magical world full of wizards and witches that live completely apart from your world. Well, almost completely. There are people like me who are born with magic from non-magical people; and there are accidents such as tonight where magic is witnessed by non magical people. In such cases, obliviators are sent to erase all trace of it. Although that’s going to become more and more difficult, isn’t it?” she asked Mycroft who nodded.

“Technology, cameras everywhere, live streaming, social media…” Mycroft replied. “Misinformation might be efficient for a while, but your people seem completely flummoxed by the very concept of new media and technology, just as they are by simple electricity. Your society will have to evolve or merge, hide better or come out.”

“Well, I don’t envy your role, then. I assume you replace the Prime Minister as the muggle contact?”

“Yes, they changed too often for it to be efficient. Minister Shacklebolt found out about me somehow and dumped the Consul title on me whether I wanted it or not. This is the first time I’m actually glad for it,” he said and glanced at Sherlock. “Ah, we’ve arrived. I think some tea is in order.”

 

Mycroft did make excellent tea if nothing else, not that he was going to say as much but, judging by his smirk, he knew anyway. John was still angry and sat next to him on the sofa, leaving Hermione to join Mycroft in the other armchair facing them.

“I think you should start with your career at St Mungo’s,” Mycroft prompted when he handed Hermione her cup. “I know it’s a long story, but none of us are going to sleep anytime soon after tonight’s events.”

Hermione sighed, but took a sip, relaxing slightly before she began her tale.

“After school, I trained as a healer. It’s the magical equivalent of a doctor. There had been a war just before I graduated, which probably threw me in that path. I’d seen so many dead and injured, I thought that maybe if I’d known more about healing at the time, I could have helped more…” she paused, her gaze lost in the past, one Sherlock wished very much he could see and analyze. “Unfortunately, Fenrir Greyback evaded capture when his side lost and he began terrorizing the magical population, biting as many as he could to cause chaos and gather a following.”

“Biting?” Sherlock was the one guilty of interrupting this time, but as what she said didn’t make any sense, it was perfectly justifiable.

Hermione shuddered, causing her teacup to rattle on its saucer.

“That man that attacked tonight was Fenrir Greyback. He was a werewolf,” Mycroft explained calmly, giving Hermione time to recover.

“You’re… serious,” Sherlock deduced.

Well, after magic, witches and wizards, why not? John wasn’t of the same mind however.

“Werewolves?” he snorted. “What’s next? Dragons and friggin unicorns”

Mycroft raised a bemused eyebrow.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” John muttered and looked at Hermione, waiting for her to continue.

“Werewolves, yes. Because of Greyback’s rampage, their numbers became too large, it was difficult to control them on the full moon. They’re normal people the rest of the month but become bloodthirsty monsters on the full moon. They would kill their own mother, spouse or child…”

Given the pause, Sherlock was sure that had actually happened.

“There is a potion which allows werewolves to retain their minds on the full moon but it is rare and expensive. We realized too late what Greyback had known all along: we wouldn’t be able to stop the progression of the number of werewolves. More would get bitten and they, in turn, would bite more people. I can’t believe that moron actually outsmarted us.”

“Instincts,” Mycroft correct. “Not wit. He was alone and created a pack to protect himself.”

“Yes, I suppose,” she sighed. “But the result was disastrous. I studied the Wolfsbane Potion, brewed it so many times I could have done it in my sleep. It is incredibly difficult and time consuming so I tried modifying it, improving it, if even just a little. At that point, any minute or ingredient saved was a godsend. We were so overrun with work at the hospital, most of us lived there. And that’s when I stumbled on something-”

“A cure,” John and Sherlock said at the same time.

“How do you know?” Sherlock asked him, his tone accusing.

“Hermione told me her attacker wanted revenge because she’d reduced his influence. How do you know?”

“Well, we’re obviously not overrun by werewolves on the full moon.”

John chuckled, tension draining out of him for the first time that evening.

“A cure, yes. Completely by accident but also completely effective: the potion killed the lycanthropic curse, or virus should I say, until there wasn’t a single werewolf left in the country. It’s been making its way across the rest of the world and maybe one day, werewolves will be a thing of the past. A story to scare children.”

“Some of the greatest discoveries have been made by accident,” Sherlock mused. “But you’re wrong, there was one werewolf left in the country. Obviously.”

“Yes, Greyback. Anyone jumped at the chance to be cured, even those who had joined his pack, but Greyback embraced his werewolf nature to the point where I’m not entirely sure he was completely human even outside of the full moon.”

Sherlock recalled the man he’d glimpsed on the roof: huge and powerful, overly hairy, his nose too flat and too large, his teeth like fangs… he wouldn’t have minded studying his corpse.

“And I became the focus of his rage, he forced me into hiding when my government couldn’t protect me from him and forced me on the run. I lost people, either because they were with me, or because Greyback attacked them out of spite or to lure me out of hiding. It’s been going on for years… I can’t believe it’s over… It’s really over this time…”

Mycroft took the rattling teacup out of her hands and offered her a handkerchief that turned from pristine white to a bright blue when she touched it. She apologized and turned it back to its original colour with her stick, although Sherlock supposed he should call it a wand. Or was that just for non-magical magicians who did parlour tricks? Maybe it was called a stick after all. There was so much he didn’t know. It was frustrating to the extreme.

“I think I need some fresh air,” Hermione said with a twitch and Mycroft directed her to the back garden with a wary look.

“What’s going on?” Sherlock asked him when she was out of earshot.

“I think she’s having problems containing her magic after the traumatic events tonight.”

“The handkerchief?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Spontaneous outburst usually only happen in their formative years, but it’s been known to happen to adults too, especially if they’re powerful or in shock.”

“She’s both, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed. “I just hope she doesn’t blow up half my house. It would be most inconvenient.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” John asked.

“Ah. The good doctor has finished sulking?” Mycroft mocked.

“I’m not  _ sulking. _ ”

Even Sherlock gave his friend a condescending smile.

“It’s just… she lied to me. Talk about a secret life. Jeez.”

“She was bound by law, John,” Mycroft said. “Even she would get into some amount of trouble if she revealed the magical world to you, and by extension to Sherlock since you two can’t keep secrets from each other.”

“So she’s some kind of celebrity in her world?” John deduced with a grimace.

“Very much so. I believe there’s a statue of her somewhere and she’s received their highest distinction. Twice. But their world is quite small compared to ours and I doubt she wants to return to it any time soon.”

“I find it very disturbing you know more about my girlfriend than me,” John muttered.

“Ah. That can be remedied quite easily,” Mycroft said and he disappeared in the next room, returning with a couple of books, presenting one to John and one to Sherlock. “So you two don’t badger me with questions all night.”

Sherlock studied his book entitled  _ The Magical World Illustrated _ , rolling his eyes at Mycroft for giving him a children’s book, but his brother motioned for him to open it and Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away from the moving illustrations for the next couple of hours.

 


	14. Epilogue

Hermione paced the small garden, marvelling that it was so well kept in this season, but then again, Mycroft Holmes seemed to be the sort of person who needed every little detail to be perfect. She flinched as her magic flared again, scorching a branch of the tree that she rapidly extinguished. Well, almost perfect. Harry had had such an episode once and she knew she could only wait it out or deplete it voluntarily. The latter was more appealing. She wanted to return inside as fast as possible, because John was not taking this whole magic situation very well. He wasn’t pulling a Dursley, not yet at least, but she feared it might be headed that way.

And not only was there the whole magical thing to deal with, but they'd sprung a surprise engagement on him to top it off. A fake one, and for his own protection, but it was still something they'd have to talk about, and sooner rather than later. It wasn't such a big deal, they could just remain “engaged” until everyone forgot about this little incident and then break it off, no harm done, but John didn't necessarily know that.

So, with a sigh that came from deep within her soul, she made a little addition to Mycroft’s garden. Permanent transfiguration always took out a lot of magic and by the time she was finished, she felt more settled. She waited another ten minutes, just to be on the safe side, before returning inside. It was very quiet. Worryingly so. She hastened to find her way back to the small sitting room where they’d been gathered and froze at the unexpected sight of the three men reading in companionable silence. It could have been a scene taken out of Gryffindor tower if they weren’t all so old. Oh Merlin! She  _ was _ getting old if she even had those kind of thoughts. Soon, she’d be screaming at kids to get off her lawn before chasing them away with her broomstick.

Mycroft noticed her and joined her by the entrance.

“I’ll be taking my leave, if you don’t mind. You can choose any guest room on the first floor when you need it.”

“Thank you for… well… everything.”

Mycroft gave a small bow and bid her good night. Hermione liked his manners that reminded her a lot of the wizarding world’s old fashioned customs. She doubted that was why Shacklebolt had chosen him as his muggle counterpart, though, but it couldn’t hurt.

“Hermione?”

She looked towards John who patted the sofa next to him in invitation and hope bloomed anew in her heart. It was progress at least. She sat and glimpsed the book he’d been reading.

“Oh no. I can’t believe you’re reading that thing,” she exclaimed, unable to hide her distaste at the book’s cover.

“What?  _ The Secret and Sensational Biography of Hermione Granger  _ by Rita Skeeter? Why ever not? With a title like that, it's practically begging to be read.”

“Because I locked that woman in a jar for a month. She hates my guts and probably wrote lies every other word.”

“Sounds like she had reasons to. How do you fit a woman in a jar?”

“In my defense, she was a beatle at the time.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and huffed.

“I’m going to need a lot of time to adjust to this thing.”

“I know. But it doesn’t have to be different. It can just be like before: you and Sherlock, and me across the street, no magic.”

John snorted.

“Fat chance.  _ He  _ knows now,” he said pointing at Sherlock still engrossed in his book. “He’s going to be insufferable until he knows  _ everything _ about your world, and then he’s going to take it apart and put it back together, and then we’ll have to shut him up before he tells everyone about it.”

Hermione smiled because of course Sherlock Holmes would do that.

“There’s a spell that shuts people up, you know,” she offered.

“I have a feeling there’s a spell for everything,” John said, amused then sobered just as fast.

“About… you know… what Mycroft said…”

Ah. So they were going to talk about it after all.

“It doesn't have to change anything. It was just something he said to protect your mind, so you wouldn't forget. But they won't come checking or anything. The Minister just needed a reason to spare you.”

“You make it sound like it's dangerous.”

“It can be. It's very rare but sometimes a mind collapses from being obliviated. Sometimes it's not as bad but the person is… not quite right afterwards. Muggles are more sensitive to it since magic can't smooth over the she's of what's been torn away so you speak.”

“That doesn't sound very nice,” John said with a scowl.

“It concerns only a fraction of people and muggles at that so you can imagine how little the wizarding world cares. Now that I'm free though… maybe I can make it my next project.” A plan took root in her mind, ideas and connections already blooming into a solid network of possibilities. She hadn't been able to do anything but glee for so long, but now, she could do anything. “With Mycroft's help, and I heard of an incident in America about a mass obliviate that couldn't possibly have been done by wand, not to mention we have to evolve with the new technologies at everyone's disposal-”

John chuckled at her enthusiasm then asked her more questions about her and this project and her world than she could have hoped. Not pulling a Dursley then.

 

°\\_(°~°)_/°

 

The next morning, when Hermione and John joined the two Holmes brothers at the kitchen counter, Mycroft looked at her strangely before asking her why there was a pond full of rainbow fish in his garden.

“I needed to expend some magic. I can get rid of it now, if you want.”

“No, that’s quite alright. I always found watching koi fish to be appeasing, but I would appreciate it if you could move it to the side of the footpath.”

Hermione ducked her head as she hadn't taken that into account. It had been quite dark out and she wondered if maybe Mycroft had stepped in it by accident this morning.

“I’ll do that before we leave. Everything should be back in order on Baker Street, but I’m not sure Crooks managed to make his way back inside. He was on the roof the last time I saw him.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” John said. “I bet he’s being fed by Mrs Hudson right as we speak.”

Hermione smiled. He would too, the plump little beggar. Probably mewled at her window until she woke up to take him in. Hermione should know better than to worry for him, but he was getting on in years.

Before they left, Mycroft asked her for a way to contact her because he prefered to have a contact from the magical world he could actually trust. It made sense, given the way Kingsley had tried to go over his head, so she gave him her phone number, enjoying the look on his face upon learning Wizards and witches  _ could _ have phones, just preferred not to. Hermione found the little device too practical to do without, even more so now that she was dating a muggle. She made a mental note to ask the Weasley twins for a way to make it more resistant to magic the next time she went to visit them now that she didn’t have to hide all the time.

She should have known better. Baker Street was a circus. People in strange garb loitering in front of 220 and not doing a very good job at blending in. Sherlock told the cabbie to keep going when he spotted them and they got off around the corner.

“We can probably go home,” John said as he peeked around the corner, “But how are you going to avoid them?”

“I can just apparate, that’s teleportation, inside my flat. I don’t know what they hope to gain by staying there. People are going to call the Met if they don’t bugger off.”

“Teleportation?” Sherlock asked. “Can I try?”

John elbowed him but she nodded. It wouldn’t hurt, they were in the know now after all. No need  to make their lives unnecessarily complicated.

“I can take two,” Hermione said, offering a hand to each of them.

She had the feeling she’d be doing that a lot in the future as she curled her hand around the two larger ones and twisted them into nothingness, reappearing in the middle of 221B where Crookshanks was waiting for her, lounging on John’s armchair where he was shedding fur like it was going out of fashion, his stomach round from overeating. His happy mewl seemed to be telling her: “Welcome back home.”

 


End file.
